SCENE I

BOOTH

If this must be, I take it. Be a man. Don’t whine like that. You suffer only from fear. But if you had this torturing leg. My God! If you rode sixty miles as I did, flesh Prodded at every jump by broken bones ...

HARROLD

What’s that?

BOOTH

A dog there in the yard.

HARROLD

Those troopers We hid from on the way here--Federals-- Did they go on, or follow, hunting us?

BOOTH

We’re ended likely. Let us stand our ground. We have our carbines for the ending up ... But oh, to be thus hunted, like a dog, Through swamps, woods, thickets, chased by gunboats too, With every hand against me. And for what? For doing what brought honor unto Brutus, And deathless fame to Tell. Who’ll clear my name? Who’ll print what I have written? There’s the pang To die and have my spirit and sacrifice Sealed up in silence, or drowned out in cries Of “cut-throat” or “assassin.” I struck down A greater tyrant than great Brutus slew. And my act was more pure than his or Tell’s. One would be great, and one had private wrongs To heap his country’s up for quick revenge. But I, what greatness could I hope for this? What wrongs had I except the common wrong? I struck for country and for that alone; I struck for liberty that groaned beneath A tyrant’s monstrous tyranny--and now look The cold hand they extend me in the South For which I struck! Our country bleeding, broken, Cried to me for relief, and I was made The instrument of God by God alone.

HARROLD

A rooster crows!

BOOTH

Two hours till morning yet. It’s only two o’clock.

HARROLD

What shall we do?

BOOTH

To-night we’ll try the river once again ... Why not return to Washington and end it? They’d try me and I’d clear my name. Repent? No, I do not repent. But I’ve a soul Too great to die a felon’s death. Swift guns Against a firing wall are honorable. Before them I can clear my name. O God! Give me a brave man’s death, for I have wronged, Nor hated no one. And was this a wrong To kill a tyrant? God must deem it so, By making it a curse upon our time, Our country and our countrymen. My fate How miserable soever it may be Proves not I did a wrong.

Great Milton come And comfort me in this my agony! You who could write a tyrant forfeits life To those whom he oppresses, and ’tis just To take him off. O curse of Cain no less! Now I must pray again.

(_He prays._)