SCENE. The City.
Lights in the Windows. The President Marches his Men over the Stage: the Bell of the Palace rings out.
Enter Admiral in his Night-Gown.
Adm.
The Palace Bell rings out, loud Cries of Murder,
Guns fir'd, and groans of dying men below;
The King has giv'n his Warrant for my last;
His Vows, his Oaths, and Altar-Obligations
Are lost: the Wax of all those Sacred Bonds
Runs at the Queens Revenge, the Fire that melts 'em.
They are no more: the Admiral's no more.
Enter Cavagnes bleeding.
Cav.
My Lord, God calls us; Death is in the Court:
Fate, in the shape of Guise, all over Blood.
I saw your Son in Law Teligny dye;
Roura, the Son of Baron des Atrets,
With Colonel Montaumar, Gallant Guerchy,
Wrapping his Cloak about his Arm, fought on
Till he was all one wound, and so Expir'd:
But hark, they come!
Adm.
Why, let 'em, let 'em come;
We shall e're long, my Friend, be worth their Envy:
To dye thus for Religion, O, Cavagnes,
It puts the Soul in everlasting Tune,
And sounds already in the Ears of Angels!
And, O, what cause had ever such Foundation!
I tell thee that the Root shall reach the Center,
Spread to the Poles, and with her top touch Heav'n.