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Title: Saints In Sussex.
   Poems and Plays by Sheila Kaye-Smith.
Author: Kaye-Smith, Sheila (1887-1956)
Date of first publication: 1926
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Dutton, 1927
   (first U.S. edition)
Date first posted: 17 September 2009
Date last updated: 17 September 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #386

This ebook was produced by:
Andrew Templeton




                                   TO
                                PENROSE




                            SAINTS IN SUSSEX


                            _The Novels of_
                           SHEILA KAYE-SMITH

                     THE GEORGE AND THE CROWN
                     THE END OF THE HOUSE OF ALARD
                     THE TRAMPING METHODIST
                     GREEN APPLE HARVEST
                     THE CHALLENGE TO SIRIUS
                     STARBRACE
                     TAMARISK TOWN
                     JOANNA GODDEN
                     SPELL LAND
                     ISLE OF THORNS
                     THREE AGAINST THE WORLD


                         E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

                          PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK



                            SAINTS IN SUSSEX

                            POEMS AND PLAYS
                                   BY
                           SHEILA KAYE-SMITH



                         E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
                       681 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK


                           Published in 1927
                       By E. P. Dutton & Company

                         _All Rights Reserved_



                Printed in the United States of America



                                CONTENTS

                                 POEMS

                              THE CALENDAR

                                                   PAGE
                   I ST. ANDREW . . . . . . . . . . 5
                  II ST. PHILIP AND ST. JAMES . . . 8
                 III ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL . . . . 10
                  IV ST. MARY MAGDALENE . . . . . . 13
                   V ST. MATTHEW . . . . . . . . .  16
                  VI ASCENSION DAY . . . . . . . .  18
                 VII PENTECOST . . . . . . . . . .  20
                VIII CORPUS CHRISTI . . . . . . . . 22
                  IX THE CONCEPTION B.V.M. . . . .  24
                   X LADY DAY IN HARVEST . . . . .  25



                                 PLAYS

      I THE CHILD BORN AT THE PLOUGH (A NATIVITY PLAY) . . . . . 33

     II THE SHEPHERD OF LATTENDEN (A PASSION PLAY) . . . . . . . 83



                                                               POEMS



                              THE CALENDAR

                                   I
                              ST. ANDREW.

                                   II
                       ST. PHILIP AND ST. JAMES.

                                  III
                        ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL.

                                   IV
                          ST. MARY MAGDALENE.

                                   V
                              ST. MATTHEW.

                                   VI
                             ASCENSION DAY.

                                  VII
                               PENTECOST.

                                  VIII
                            CORPUS CHRISTI.

                                   IX
                         THE CONCEPTION B.V.M.

                                   X
                          LADY DAY IN HARVEST.





                               ST. ANDREW

                   THE MEN OF SUSSEX CRYING AFTER HIM


Andrew, what of the North?
  In November shadows drear
We have heard thee marching forth
  With songs of a glad new year.
Thou goest to mountains high,
  To Picts in a Northern fen--
But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cry
  Of the little Southern Men.

Down by the seas of Gaul,
  Where the Roman eagles stand,
Anderida they call
  Our shaggy forest land.
We have no saving health,
  To us no Word comes forth,
On us the gods bestow no wealth--
  Yet Andrew goes to the North.

Oh, stay and give us grace,
  For our hearts are grey with dule,
As each man lifts his face
  In the dreadful days of Yule,
When the burning Wheel stands still
  In the black and dropping skies,
And the Long Man screams upon the hill
  With the human sacrifice.

Andrew, what of the North?
  Our Druids tell sad tales,
Our arms have lost their worth
  In the scrubby hills of Wales;
But thy mighty banners go
  Forward and pass us by,
As the Northern streamers fly and flow
  On the red wings of the sky.

We hear strange tales of thee--
  We hear thou preachest still
A Man more fair than Bald, a Tree
  More tall than Ygdrasyl,
A Bread more strong than meat,
  Water more fierce than wine--
Than the mead which drunken gods find sweet
  In the halls where Heroes dine. . . .

To the little Southern Men
  Saint Andrew answered he:
"I have heard from the Northern fen
  Your moan from the Gaulish sea;
And though I pass you by,
  And may not see your face,
Yet my Lord hath heard your cry,
  And he sends you hope of grace.

"Three saints shall teach the land
  That lies by the Southern sea;
Three saints on your shores shall stand--
  A thrice-noble company.
The Word that heals and saves,
  Which to the Scots I send,
Wilfred shall teach by the waves
  That beat on Manhood's End.

"On Havant's drawling tide,
  Which round the island swells,
The solemn ships shall glide
  To the chime of Richard's bells;
On Mayfield's hills the iron
  Of Dunstan's anvil rings
As he hammers gates for Zion
  And fights Unholy Things.

"So faint not--all is well,
  And the price of hope is paid
By the Lord who hath harrowed hell,
  And hath made the gods afraid.
Eternity keeps the hours
  Till the Sussex Saints go forth--
Wilfred and Richard and Dunstan are yours,
  But Andrew goes to the North."



           ST. PHILIP AND ST. JAMES TO ST. SIMON AND ST. JUDE


Said the May Day Saints to the Grey Day Saints,
Singing across the year:
How is it with you in October?
With us the meadows are green,
And the grass is warm with the sun,
And strown with the golden pence
Of the coltsfoot, our offertory.
The tapers are lit for our feast--
Tall tapers are lit for our feast
In the drooping horse-chestnut boughs;
And the thrushes serve our Mass
There in the white thorn hedge,
Where the bloom is breaking against
A smudgy, sweet grey sky
That shall give us holy water. . . .
Oh, tell us, October Saints,
How you fare at the end of the year.
Are you cold in the draught of the year?--
On the edge of the fog of All Saints
And the gloom of the Holy Souls?

Said the Grey Day Saints to the May Day Saints,
Singing across the year:
How is it with you in the Spring?
The leaves in the wood are red,

And the frightened trees are a-shake
Down by the moaning brook.
The birds sweep the sky with desperate wings of escape.
There is none to serve our Mass,
And the high wind is our Priest.
No censer swings for us
From the lime-tree's blossomed boughs;
Yet have we joy of our feast,
For we know that the Child is near--
The Child who is born in December,
In the frozen December night.
Round him the year shall wake,
And climb the Spring into May,
To the feast of Philip and James.
The tapers of Christ's own Mass
Shall rekindle the fading sun,
And Mary shall lift her Babe
To the horn of the wintry moon,
And ride him into a Happy New Year.



                         ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL

                           THE GATE OF LEWES

St. Peter sits on Caburn Hill,
  St. Paul sits high on Beacon Down,
And there, each side of Wakeland's Mill,
  They guard the way to Lewes Town:
They hold the Sword and Keys in state--
  Our bands are loosed, our sins forgiven--
They sit there guarding Lewes Gate
  As they would guard the Gate to Heaven:

For Lewes Town like Heaven is,
And Heaven is like Lewes Town.

The golden streets go up the hill,
In sunshine dreaming, warm and still;
Ouse river through the vale below
Like Sion's Stream of Life doth flow,
And many fruits our fruit-trees bear--
Plum, cherry, apple, quince, and pear--
And in our streets the live-long day
The girls and boys are at their play.
When evening falls the church bells ring,
And faithful voices pray and sing;
When morning comes the faithful feet
Tread to the altar-paces sweet.
The Lamb is with us day and night,
So, like high Heaven's, our streets are bright.
The Lamb is with us night and day,
So two Apostles guard the way
'Twixt Caburn Hill and Beacon Down,
The way that leads to Lewes Town.

For Lewes Town like Heaven is,
And Heaven is like Lewes Town.

Oh, great St. Peter, hear our cry
  From your high sunset seat on Firle,
Promise by Him you did deny
  That our dear city's gates of pearl
Shall not be forced by any foe;
  Nor any soul that mongers sin,
Or in defilement loves to go,
  Or makes a lie, shall enter in.

Oh, great St. Paul on Mount Caburn,
  Promise by Him you sought to slay
That your fierce, fiery sword shall turn
  Both east and west and every way
To guard the sunrise road that swings
  Past Glynde and Wick and Stonery,
Because it is the road of kings,
  Who bring their glory from the sea.

They bring their glory to our feast,
  As to the New Jerusalem;
They are the Wise Kings of the East,
  Who journeyed once to Bethlehem;
And through our streets they'll ride in state,
  From Brooks to Priory, up and down,
And praise the Saints who guard our Gate--
  The holy Gate of Lewes Town.



                           ST. MARY MAGDALENE

Mary Magdalene has looked out of her window,
High in her cottage at Horeham Road;
From her high window has Mary looked down,
And seen all the doings and sights of the town:
The boys look up as they pass her abode--
The boys look up, but the girls look down.


Mary Magdalene has caught sight of the Preacher--
The Preacher who's come from the town in the west;
She hears him preaching out there on the Green:
His words have troubled her heart--she has seen
His face, and the sobs are all thick in her breast,
And her tears are the saltest that ever were seen.


From Horeham Road to Boreham Street
And High Horse Bridge where the waters meet--
East or west, was there ever seen
Such a preaching, such a teaching for Mary Magdalene?


A boy calls up to her there at the window:
"Come down, my sweet, for the night is here,
And the stars are dim in the mists above,
And the darkening field is the place for love--
Come down, my lovely, come down, my dear,
And show me beauty and give me love."


But Mary Magdalene stands on at the window,
And the dusk is white on her tear-stained face,
For the Preacher has broken her heart, and it turns
To the Word that freezes, the Word that burns,
The Word that is Flesh in the market-place,
Where the Preacher's voice through the silence burns.


From Horeham Road to Boreham Street
And High Horse Bridge where the waters meet--
East or west, was there ever seen
Such a turning, such a burning for Mary Magdalene?


Mary, Magdalene has gone down to the Preacher--
The strange young man from the western town:
With silk she is shining, with scent she is sweet,
Her eyes are like water, like flowers are her feet,
And when she has come to the Green she falls down
Before the young Preacher and kisses his feet.


She kisses his feet and she cries out for pardon,
With tears and with kisses his feet are all wet;
The boys are all staring and no word is said,
For she wipes his wet feet with the hair of her head--
Her lovely brown hair that no boy can forget,
It is like a brown beech-wood, the hair of her head.


From Horeham Road to Boreham Street
And High Horse Bridge where the waters meet--
East or west, was there ever seen
Such a sighing, such a crying for Mary Magdalene?


And the Preacher has stooped, and has blessed her and raised her,
And the boys are all laughing to see them stand so:
"Ah, lovely, and have you forgotten so soon
The ways of a woman, the ways of the moon,
And all the gay gallants with whom you would go
And show them the madness that's under the moon?"


The Preacher has brought Magdalene to his mother,
And his mother has given her a white gown to wear,
And they've sat down to supper together all three,
And the boys stand outside in the street and agree
That the joke's gone too far--"Come out, Mary, my dear,
For you and these strangers will never agree."


But Mary Magdalene has looked out of the window--
She stands in the window all white and alone--
"I will never return while the stars shine above
To the ways that are far from the true ways of love.
Oh, many a lover poor Mary has known,
But never till now has she learned to know love."


From Horeham Road to $oreham Street
And High Horse Bridge where the waters meet--
East or west, was there ever seen
Such a story, such a glory for Mary Magdalene?



                              ST. MATTHEW

Matthew the Publican sits at the gate of September,
Counting the gold of the passing and vanishing year--
The gold that the Summer must pay with her tears and sighings--
          The gold of the falling leaves.

The Lord goes by and, turning, says unto Matthew:
"Follow me--follow me down the long months into Winter,
Follow me--follow me down through the fogs of November,
When the coin of the year is spent and the trees are beggared,
With never a golden leaf to drop at the gate--
          Follow me."

Matthew the Publican rises to follow his Lord;
But first he will make a feast at the gate of September--
He will make a feast for the sinners and saints of the year.
The way is long and the Autumn paths are dreary,
So before he treads the dark road into the winter
He makes a great golden feast, the last feast of Summer,
And he throws his golden treasury over the fields.
The dying, fluttering, shimmering leaves of September,
The last of the daisies and coltsfoot and dandelions,
Are Matthew the Publican's treasure, his gold and silver.
Which he throws at his Master's feet, the feet he must follow
Down, down the Autumn, into the fogs--
          To the end of the year.



                             ASCENSION DAY

So thou hast left us and our meadows,
Lord, who hast blessed us and our meadows--
Lord of the sorrel-hearted hay,
Lord of the pollened flowers of May.
From our fields thou hast ascended,
Passing into the anthered light
Beyond the sun, by the winds attended--
And the Sussex fields are white
With daisies, and the diadem
Of the hawthorn crowns the hedge,
And at the blue pond's reedy edge,
Like a broidered, silken hem
The yellow irises are blown.
Lord, thou art gone, and gone alone.


Dost thou think of us and our meadows,
Lord, who hast left us and our meadows?
In shining pastures of the sky
Thou walkest, Lord, ascended high.
The stars are flowers about thy feet,
And looking up to thee we see
The River flowing silently--
The Milky River, broad and sweet
As Rother River here below,
While planets the dim marshes strow,
And constellations flower and fade. . . .
O Lord, thou hast thy country there,
The fields and meadows of the sky,
The fields and meadows ever fair,
The dear, divine, undying glade.


At night we too walk in thy meadows,
We walk beside thee in thy meadows.
At midnight I may hear thy call,
And ride to thee on the moon's light--
To where the living waters fall,
And the unfading fields are bright.
The stars are flowers about our feet,
And at my side thou art the sweet
Perfumed, eternal breath of May. . . .


With a sob the pale-eyed day
Wakens at the Rother's mouth,
And back to earthly fields I go,
And back to earthly toil, and slow
Hot days of the slow, drawling South,
Toiling to keep the fields alive,
For our poor meadows cannot thrive
On just the memory of thy feet,
Which trod them once and found them sweet.
Our tears, our sweat, must give them life,
For thou, our Lord, hast gone on high
To golden countries of the sky,
To golden fields of golden stars,
Beyond the echo, of our strife. . . .
Yet there, upon the shining hill,
Thou dreamest of our meadows still,
And, Lord, we have thy promise plain
That thou wilt walk in them again.



                               PENTECOST

Dear Heart of the Eternal Rose--
  O Many-coloured Heart of Fire--
That in our Lord's green garden grows,
 Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire.


Sweet Honey of the heavenly flowers,
  Distilled from the white lily's heart,
Drip on these thirsty lips of ours--
  Thou the anointing Spirit art.


O Wind, down heaven's long lanes ablow,
  Warm, perfume-laden Breath of Love,
O Sweetness, on our hearts bestow
  Thy blessed unction from above.


O Sun, in the mild skies ashine,
  O Moon, bewitching all the night,
These dark and groping ways of mine
  Enable with perpetual light.


Dear Absolution of the Sun,
  Dear Quickener of the meadow's grace,
When the day's course of toil is run,
  Anoint and cheer our soiled face.


When evening falls and darkness creeps,
  And the long starry hours have come,
And all the world is tired, and sleeps,
  Keep far our foes, give peace at home.


O Sun, O Wind, O Flower, O Fire! . . .
Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire!



                             CORPUS CHRISTI

Now thou hast come to the end of thy pilgrimage, Lord;
Thy lamp glows red like a star at the dim lane's turning:
The bread and the wine of thy supper are set in the shadows,
And the gleam of thy cottage calls toilers and wanderers home.


In the feathery green of the hedges the chervil is blooming--
Petals and wafers of scent, like the Host in a dream. . . .
The night wind is singing the Mass of thy living and dying,
O Pilgrim of Love, who at last hast come to thy shrine.


Thou art at peace. At thy journey's end thou sittest,
Thy cheek on thy folded hands, before thee the bread and wine,
While far down the sky the yellow moon dips to her dying,
And the big stars hang like lamps in the fading west.


Lord of the journey's end, if I too should stumble
At last to the long lane's turning, there may I see
The beckon and gleam of the lamp that is hung in thy cottage,
Calling me home to my supper, my friends, and sleep.


The Saints sup with thee, there in the dusk and lamplight--
Mary and Joseph and Peter and all my friends--
With faces propped on their tired and toil-worn fingers,
And kind eyes full of the peace of the journey's end.


To that feast of the Saints in Light, dear Lord, please bring me,
Wash my dusty feet as on Maundy long ago;
At the end of the day let me find my Lord at supper,
And forget my toils with him in the Breaking of Bread.



                         THE CONCEPTION B.V.M.

                            _Anna's Voice:_

Down by the rushes I paused and bent--
I bent with a sudden lovely pang of joy,
And I knew that my hope was true. . . .
Lord God of our fathers, if thou send me a son
He shall be bred in thy fear,
But if thou send me a daughter
She shall be bred in thy love.
Lord, I pray thee, send me a girl.



                          LADY DAY IN HARVEST

      A LULLABY FOR THE FALLING ASLEEP OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY

  _Mary sleeps--and as she sleeps the angels sing:_
Sleep, sleep, sweetly sleep,
Sweetly sleep, sleep, sleep,
You who rocked the cradle--so--
In the stable long ago.
Golden Rose of David's stem,
Sleep, and dream of Bethlehem;
Dream of herald angels singing,
Dream of Christmas bells a-ringing
In the steeples of the town,
Telling of the Christ come down
To a stable long ago;
Dream in harvest of the snow;
Dream his head is on your breast,
Then, smiling, sleep and take your rest--
Golden Rose of David's stem,
Sleep and dream of Bethlehem.


  _Mary sleeps--and as she sleeps her Son sings:_
Sleep, sleep, sweetly sleep,
Sweetly sleep, sleep, sleep:
You rocked the cradle once for me,
Mother of sweet liberty;
And now I sing your lullaby,
While angels watch us from the sky,
And the August stars are bright
In the dark, hop-scented night.
Rest, darling mother, rest
With your head upon my breast,
For all the hundred happy hours
That my head has lain on yours.
Mother whose hair is grey with love,
  With memories of Calvary's day. . . .
Darling, in the fields above
  The young angels wait to play,
And all the holy innocents,
  Who once laid down their lives for me,
Will climb into your lap and lie
  Where once I lay so lovingly.
Rest, darling mother, rest
With your head upon my breast.


  _Mary sleeps--and as she sleeps we all sing:_

Sleep, sleep, mother, sleep,
Sweetly sleep, sleep, sleep;
On his bosom lay your head,
While the angels watch your bed,
And the August stars are red--
  Little mother of joy divine,
  Little mother of purity,
  Sweet mother of eternity--
(You our mother and he our brother);
So shall heaven's windows shine
With lights of home, burning softly down,
  On your children on their way
  To your door--until the day
When we reach our native town:
And our hands shall knock, and yours unlatch,
And we shall come home to you under the thatch--
To you our mother, to him our brother,
So shall we love you and him and each other.
  Little mother of joy divine,
From your window in heaven look down,
And light the way to our native town.




                                                             PLAYS



                                   I
                     THE CHILD BORN AT THE PLOUGH.

                                   II
                       THE SHEPHERD OF LATTENDEN.



                      THE CHILD BORN AT THE PLOUGH

                     A NATIVITY PLAY IN FOUR SCENES



                               CHARACTERS

THEIR LOOKER AT WICKHAM
THEIR LOOKER AT LEASAN       The Three Lookers.
THEIR LOOKER AT SLINCHES

DAVID--The Gipsy King.

ABRAHAM
MOSES
ELIJAH
ISAIAH      Gipsies.
MIRIAM
HANNAH
OLD EVA

THE LANDLADY OF THE PLOUGH.
SQUIRE HEROD.
MRS. HEROD.
SALOME.

A MATHEMATICIAN
A BIOLOGIST        Three Wise Men from Oxford and Cambridge.
AN ASTRONOMER

THE ANGEL OF THE LORD.
JOSEPH.
MARY.
MR. STEPHEN--a Deacon.
OLD JOHN--a blind man.
THE SCHOOLCHILDREN.
THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY.
THE ANGEL CHOIR.



                                SCENE I

        A Lambing-hut on the Marshes between Rye and Winchelsea.


                                SCENE II

                     The Public Bar at the Plough.


                               SCENE III

                       The Stable at the Plough.


                                SCENE IV

                            The same again.



                      THE CHILD BORN AT THE PLOUGH

                                SCENE I

SCENE: _A Lambing-hut on the Marshes between Winchelsea and Rye. All is
in darkness except where the brazier makes a red glow. The glow
illuminates the faces and figures of the_ THREE LOOKERS, _who crouch
over it, warming their hands._ THEIR LOOKER AT WICKHAM _is a young man,
with sandy hair and moustache. He wears corduroy trousers and his old
army tunic._ THEIR LOOKER AT LEASAN _is middle-aged and darkly bearded.
He wears breeches and gaiters, with a shapeless cloth coat, and almost
suggests the gamekeeper rather than the shepherd._ THEIR LOOKER AT
SLINCHES _is an old man, wearing old-fashioned clothes--trousers and a
long coat. He alone of the_ THREE LOOKERS _wears a hat--a round,
semi-clerical affair, such as used to surmount the labourer's smock of a
bygone age. His beard is a neat white frill round his wrinkled,
pippin-like old face._


_Their Looker at Wickham_. Oooo-ah!

_Their Looker at Leasan_. You may well say "Oooo-ah," Mr. Relph. It's a
good thing to say, seeing how tired and weary and fatigued and exhausted
we all are, put out to lambing on Christmas Eve.

_Their Looker at Slinches_. Never have I met such a tedious nonsensical
notion, and I've bin looker man and boy in all parts of the marsh.
Twenty-seven year was I wud old Mus' Vidler over at Honeychild, and nigh
on fifteen wud Mus' Godden at the Loose--but never a lamb before
April--no such thing heard of on the marsh. It wants a furriner lik the
new Squire to come along from the Shires and buy up the old pläace and
teach us our business.

_Leasan_. Well, it ain't no business of yours, Mr. Stuppeny. I'm their
looker at Leasan, and it's I wot have got to fall in with their silly
new-fangled notions that'll lose us the whole flock by February. You and
Relph have but come to keep me company, seeing as it's Christmas Eve,
and I might be setting up at the Plough, enjoying my Christmas beer,
instead of hanging about on the marsh waiting for lambs that'll never be
born alive.

_Wickham_. They lamb at Christmas in Cambridgeshire.

_Leasan_. Cambridgeshire ain't Sussex, nor Kent neither. In Kent and
Sussex we've lambed in April since Noah's flood.

_Slinches_. It's all them Shires. Setting themselves up for wisdom over
all the country. Christmas lambing ain't the only bad thing that's come
to us from the Shires. There's an outlandish heathen tune that Parson's
brought to sing to-morrow instead of Spiffkins.

_Leasan_. What! You ain't telling me that they won't be having Spiffkins
in F to-morrow?

_Slinches_ [_groaning_]. Not a note! Parson's all for some stuff from
the Shires he calls Plainsong--and middling plain it be too, not a kick
in it--more lik a set o' cats among the barns than Christian music. Oh,
it's all part of our good ways going wud the old Reverund. Ever since my
voice cracked I've sung the part in Spiffkins where it says 'O Lord, the
only begotten son,' and I thought as I'd sing it till it was time for me
to go into the ground.

_Wickham_ [_maliciously_]. Maybe that's why they've changed it, Mr.
Stuppeny. I've heard tell as your voice has cracked again.

_Slinches_. My voice is a tedious fine voice, young feller, and you've
no call to speak so to your elders. Year after year I've sung 'O Lord,
the only begotten son,' and there ain't naun the matter wud the tune,
nor wud my voice neither.


[SLINCHES _lifts up his cracked old voice and sings tunelessly from the
Gloria in Excelsis_--'O Lord, the only begotten son, Jesus Christ. O
Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father.' _The reason for the change is
now apparent._ WICKHAM _sniggers, and_ SLINCHES _turns angrily upon
him_.]


_Slinches_. You ain't naun but an ill-conditioned brat. All the
school-larnin' you've had ain't taught you to respect your elders. I've
a mind----

_Leasan_ [_interrupting_]. Come, come, Mäaster, and you too, Mr. Relph.
Don't let us start quarrelling this Christmas night, or I'll wish more'n
ever we was all at the Plough. Reckon we ought to behave ourselves
seemly, being like the shepherds who watched their flocks by night all
seated on the ground, as the carol says.

_Slinches_. 'Twas a fine carol, and I guess those were fine times.

_Wickham_. What times?

_Slinches_. The times when Christ was born. Reckon nothing ever happens
lik that nowadays. Christ was born at an inn in an old pläace called
Bethlehem a dunnamany years ago. Reckon it ud be middling fine if he cud
be born at the Plough up at Udimore for all us folk to see.

_Leasan_ [_a little shocked at the venturesomeness of age_]. Come, come,
Mäaster. That ain't the way to think of it. Christ was born in the
Bible, and it ud never do fur him to be born out of it. All that belongs
to the old times long ago.

_Wickham_. But they weren't long ago when they happened. I bet the
shepherds felt pretty much as we feel to-night--tired of watching and
maybe grumbling a bit. And the inn at Bethlehem was pretty much the same
as the Plough at Udimore, with Mrs. Ades standing behind the bar, and
all the gipsies drinking. . . .

_Leasan_ [_shocked now at youth_]. For shame, Mr. Relph, to speak so.
That ain't the way to talk of holy things.

_Wickham_. And what's the way to talk of 'em, I'd like to know?

_Leasan_. You should talk of them respectfully, as things that happened
once upon a time. Reckon those shepherds was different from us, being
Holy People in the Bible, and you've no call to talk of Bethlehem as if
it was like Udimore. Besides, there was the Angel of the Lord. You don't
get angels now.


[WICKHAM _is stumped, and scratches his head_.]


_Slinches_. I dreamed I saw an angel wunst. He wur dressed lik Parson,
but had wings sticking out of his back.

_Wickham_ [_recovering his argument_]. Anyways, I reckon the folk at
Bethlehem felt pretty much the same as the folk at Udimore, and I bet
those shepherds weren't so different from us, in spite of all you say.

_Leasan_. Well, don't let's start arguing again. We all seem a bit short
to-night. Maybe we're missing our time at the Plough. What do you say to
us singing a carol to make us feel more Christmaslike?

_Slinches_. Aye, I'll sing wud you, Mäaster.

_Wickham_. Let's sing "While shepherds watched."

_Slinches_. That's a tedious fine carol, and seemly.

_Leasan_. Well, I've no objection. Reckon we all know the words.

_Wickham_. One, two, three--Go!

[_They sing together:_

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night
   All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down
   And glory shone around."


_As they sing the last line the_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _is seen standing in
the light of the brazier. They sit and gape at him, and for a moment or
two there is a complete, terrified silence. Then the_ ANGEL _sings the
next verse of the carol, half reassuring, half bantering them:_


   "Fear not, said he, for mighty dread
      Had seized their troubled mind.
   Glad tidings of great joy I bring
      To you and all mankind."


_In appearance the_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _is very much as_ THEIR LOOKER AT
SLINCHES _had dreamed him. He is "dressed like Parson" in a_ _long white
Sarum surplice, with a scarf, but instead of a hood a handsome pair of
wings sprout from his shoulders. He is like Milton's "affable
archangel," free of any pomposity or false solemnity. He now looks at
the_ THREE LOOKERS _with a twinkle in his eye_.]


_Angel_. You're surprised to see me--eh? You thought I never came out of
the Bible, did you?

_Wickham_ [_finding voice_]. Oh, sir, we beg your pardon.

_Leasan_. We ain't used to this sort of thing, as you might say. We were
kind of taken aback, like.

_Slinches_. I wurn't taken aback. Reckon as all this is happening as it
should ought.

_Angel_. Of course it is, though I reckon too you _were_ taken aback,
Mr. Stuppeny. This is the first live angel you've seen outside a dream
as well as outside the Bible.

_Leasan_. Why have you come, Sir?

_Angel_. What a question! I've come as the Angel came to the Shepherds
in the Bible, to bring you good tidings of great joy. [_Sings_.]


"To you in Udimore this day
   Is born of David's line
A Saviour who is Christ the Lord,
   And this shall be the sign:

"The heavenly Babe you there shall find
   To human view displayed,
All meanly wrapped in swaddling bands
   And in a manger laid."


_Wickham_. Did you say Udimore, Sir?

_Angel_. Yes, Udimore. You will find the Babe in the stable at the
Plough.

_Slinches_. The gipsies is all up at the Plough to-night.

_Angel_. Of course they are. The gipsies sometimes are very wise.

_Leasan_. You don't tell me that dirty lot knew as Christ the Lord was
coming?

_Angel_. They've known it and foretold it for a great many years. Come,
you mustn't leave them to be the only folk there to greet him.

_Leasan_. Come to Udimore, sir?

_Angel_. Why, yes.

_Leasan_. But what about my work here? What about my master's lambs?

_Angel_. Your master's lambs shan't suffer. While you are at Udimore
they shall be cared for by the holy angels themselves. I promise you a
successful lambing, even though it _is_ winter.

_Wickham_. Let's go to Udimore and see this thing which has happened
there.

_Slinches_. Surelye, surelye. We've got to go and greet the babe,
wheresumdever he's born.

_Leasan_ [_getting up_]. Yes, we may as well go, though I never thought
to see such doings outside the Scriptures. You promise me it will be all
right about the lambs, sir?

_Angel_. Of course it will be all right. [_Singing is heard in the
distance:_ "O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have
mercy upon us."] Hark! Don't you hear the Angels coming over the marsh?
Leave your lambs to them, and come and see the Lamb of God.


[_They all move out through the door into the moonlight. As they go the
hidden Angel voices sing:_

_Voices_. O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world:
     Have mercy upon us.
O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world:
     Grant us Thy peace.



                                SCENE II

SCENE: _The Public Bar at the Plough. The counter is on the left. On the
right there is a door and an uncurtained window. Another door, behind
the counter, opens into the passage leading to the back of the inn and
the stable yard. The_ LANDLADY _stands behind the counter, serving the
company. She is a buxom, good-looking woman, dressed very much in the
new style of the country-side--in high, laced boots and brilliant
jumper. The gipsies are crowding round the bar, the men dressed in
corduroys and velveteens, the women wrapped in big coloured shawls.
Angry voices are heard, and some cries of "Shame!_"


_Landlady_. Not so much noise, ladies and gentlemen, please. You can
hear quite plain in the stable if there's a noise in the bar.

_Hannah_. How is the poor love doing, ma'am?

_Landlady_. She's doing valiant. But I reckon no woman can have been
through all she's been through and not feel something afterwards.

_Miriam_. She should never have left home with her time so near.

_Landlady_. Seemingly she couldn't help it. Joseph's folk used to live
in these parts, and there's land here he had to come and see
after--something to do with the taxing. I'm unaccountable sorry I
couldn't have 'em in the house, but there ain't a corner to spare, with
my sister and my brother and his wife, and my sister's Albie and my
brother's George and Mabel, all come for Christmas.

_David_. You have a pretty houseful. I'm glad we don't live in houses.

_Landlady_. You might do better if you did. Anyhow, I don't see how
you're going to manage now that Squire Herod's ordered you off his land.


[_Once more there are angry murmurs, but this time more subdued, for the
gipsies have not forgotten the mother and child_.]


_Elijah_. It's not the way he's treated us that's so bad. We're used to
it from everybody. But when it comes to his having the Reverend John
Baptist run in for what all folks know he's never done . . .


[_More murmuring and cries of "Shame!"_]


_Landlady_. Shush, will you!

_Elijah_ [_continuing in a hoarse whisper_]. Nobody ud be fool enough to
think he'd poach so much as a rat's tail in Sowden. He goes in the
woods, 'cos that's his way. He'd sooner preach in the woods than in
chapel. Many's the sermon he's preached to us in the woods--all against
poaching and thieving too.

_David_. It ain't nothing to do with the poaching. That's only Squire
Herod's excuse. What's made him angry is that the Reverend John has bin
talking to him about Mrs. Herod.

_Landlady_ [_tossing her head_]. And quite right too. We ain't used to
such goings on in these parts.

_David_. Well, I understand he talked to him straight. One of our people
heard what he said once when he met them both in the drive at
Cock-Marling. "It isn't lawful for you to have her," he says--just like
that.

_Landlady_. I hope things won't go hardly with him, but it all sounds
bad. I've always had a liking for the Reverend John Baptist. He was
never what you might call a friendly chap, but he preached a good
gospel.

_Elijah_. That's right--a good gospel--"Repent ye," he'd say, "for the
Kingdom of Heaven is at hand."

_Hannah_. I hope no harm ull come to him, poor soul.

_Miriam_. But I fear . . .

_Old Eva_. Aye, we all fear for the Reverend John Baptist now Squire
Herod's got him.


[_While they have been talking,_ ELIJAH _has been looking out of the
window. Now he turns round suddenly into the room_.]


_Elijah_. Here he is!

_Landlady_. Who? John Baptist?

_Elijah_. No. Squire Herod and Mrs. Herod--coming in here. [_There is a
commotion_.]

_Moses_. What can he be after?

_David_. Us, for certain.

_Landlady_. More likely the poor innocent just born.


[_The door opens. Enter_ SQUIRE HEROD, MRS. HEROD _and_ SALOME, _her
daughter by her first marriage. The_ SQUIRE _wears a square bowler,
which he does not remove, riding breeches and leggings. He is a dark,
florid man, with Semitic hints about him_. MRS. HEROD _is frankly
American. She wears a small hat with a floating_ _veil, and large,
horn-rimmed spectacles_. SALOME _is a tall flapper, pretty, and
stylishly dressed, but looking both precocious and silly_.]


_Herod_ [_striding up to the counter_]. Well, Mrs. Ades, what's all this
I hear?

_Landlady_ [_sulkily_]. I'm sure I don't know, sir.

_Herod_. About this child born at the Plough.

_Landlady_. There ain't no child born at the Plough, sir.

_Herod_. But I've been told there is--the child of some travelling
tinkers or such. I've said before, and I say it again [_glaring round at
the gipsies_], I won't have any vagrancy in the parish.

_David_ [_with the whine of the professional gipsy_]. Surely you don't
take us for vagrants, your honour. We're poor people, but we're gentle
people, as we say. Each one of us comes of a royal family.

_Herod_. Don't talk nonsense to me, fellow. I say you're a lot of
raggle-taggle gipsies. But it ain't you I've come after this time. I've
come about that child.

_Landlady_. And I've told you there ain't no child.

_Mrs. Herod_ [_coming up to the counter, and speaking with a strong
American accent_]. Sure, Mrs. Ades, you needn't think we'd harm the
little thing if there was. All my husband wants is for the poor little
stranger to be put in the workhouse infirmary and properly cared for
this bitter weather.

_Landlady_. It'll be properly cared for here--leastways, it would be
properly cared for if it was here, but it ain't.

_Mrs. Herod_. They told us down at the village that a poor person's
child had been born in your stable.

_Landlady_. They talk a lot o' nonsense down at the village. [_A bright
idea strikes her_.] I tell you what it is. You've heard the tale of my
Buttercup having calved to-night.

_The Gipsies_. Ho! Ho!
That's it, missus!
Your Buttercup has a gorgeous Christmas calf.

_Herod_. Well, I'm going to see, anyway.

_David_ [_placing himself with the other male gipsies between_ HEROD
_and the yard door_]. No, you don't!

_Herod_. Get out of the way. Who are you to stop me?

_David_ [_with dignity_]. I am a king.

_Mrs. Herod_. Come, dear, don't fight them. It isn't worth it. We can
send a policeman up to look.

_Elijah_. Yes, you find the police mighty useful, don't you? You've made
them shut up the Reverend John Baptist because he told you the truth.

_Herod_. It's a lie. He's in gaol for poaching. My keepers found him in
Sowden, with a rabbit in his pocket.

_Elijah_. And 'twas put there. A likely tale for a chapel minister to go
poaching rabbits, and him preaching at us for the same all these years.
No, sir. The Reverend John Baptist was put in prison because he told you
the truth about yourself and Mrs. Herod here.

_Mrs. Herod_. Oh, you dreadful man! How dare you!

_Elijah_. He said "It isn't lawful for you to have her," just like that.
And you had him jugged for speaking the truth.

_Mrs. Herod_. It isn't the truth. It's a lie. My divorce is perfectly
legal in Cesarea, Idaho.

_Elijah_. Well, this ain't Cesarea, Idaho. It's Udimore, Sussex. And we
don't hold with folks that keep house with their brothers' wives.

_Mrs. Herod_. Oh! Oh! How dare you? Herod--what are you thinking of? Are
you going to stand by and see me insulted? Aren't you any sort of a
he-man? Why don't you do something?

_Herod_ [_obviously frightened at the menacing looks of the company_]. I
will in a minute--I--I mean at the proper time. Come out of this, my
dear, and we'll go straight to the police.

_Salome_. Let's go back home, mom. The police can wait. We've scarce any
time to dress for dinner as it is, and I want to look my dandiest for
the dance.

_Herod_ [_seeing the chance of a dignified exit_]. Yes, don't let's
waste any more time here. Mr. Pilate, the Mayor, is coming to dinner,
and Mr. Caiaphas, the Archdeacon, and Salome has promised to dance for
us. Let's be off.


[_They march to the door. As they go out_ HEROD _turns and says:_]


_Herod_. But don't think you've heard the last of this. You shall
suffer, all of you, for your behaviour to-night--you and that ranter and
that child which I know is in the stable.


[_Exit the_ HERODS, _in great wrath_.]


_Landlady_ [_fanning herself_]. Thank Heaven that's over. What a to-do!
What vulgar people! It's hard to have the likes of them setting
themselves up over us.

_David_. D'you think they'll go to the police?

_Landlady_. Not to-night. I know those dinners they have. There'll be
nothing doing till they've slept it off to-morrow morning. Let's keep
Christmas till then.

_Moses_. Aye, let's keep Christmas, and forget all about 'em.


[_There is a knock at the door. For a moment every one is startled_.]


_Elijah_. They've come back.

_David_. They wouldn't knock if they did.

_Landlady_. Come in.


[_The door opens_. The ANGEL OF THE LORD _comes in with the_ THREE
LOOKERS.]


_Angel_. Good evening, one and all.

_All_. Good evening, sir.


[_The gipsies cluster round him_.]


_David_. We're glad to see you this Christmas night.

_Moses_. It's long since we met.

_Abraham_. Not since I sat at the tent door.

_Isaiah_. Not since I saw you in the great Church, and you touched my
lips with a coal.

_Elijah_. You brought me food once, when I was lost and starving.

_Eva_ [_resentfully_]. You drove me out of the garden and wouldn't let
me come back.

_Angel_. Yes, I've met most of you before this. But to-night we begin a
new fellowship. Allow me to introduce my three friends--[_he presents_]
Their Looker at Wickham, Their Looker at Leasan, Their Looker at
Slinches. These three Lookers have come to see the child.

_The Gipsies_. Ah, the child!

_Angel_. You know about the child?

_David_. We know about him, though we have not seen him.

_Moses_. Sir, show us the child.

_Angel_. That is why I've come--to bring you all into the stable. These
good shepherds were singing about the new-born Child when I found them
on the marsh, and you yourselves have often sung of him. Isn't it true,
David, that your gipsy lore is full of this night?

_David_. Indeed, the Lord himself said to the Child by my voice: Thou
art my son, this day have I begotten thee.

_Abraham_. And to me he said: And in thy seed shall all the nations of
the earth be blessed.

_Isaiah_. And to me he said: A virgin shall conceive and be with child,
and they shall call his name Emmanuel.

_Angel_. Yes, I know it. He has spoken by you all. So you have a right
to go in and greet his Son.

_Landlady_. Well, let's all be going then. I'rn sure the mother ull bid
you welcome.


[_She opens the door at the back of the counter, and as she does so a
wail floats through it, a child's cry. The_ ANGEL'S _whole demeanour
changes. He loses his debonair manner; he is as it were shocked,
stricken. He falls back a pace or two, and his pinions droop_.]


_Slinches_. What was that?

_Angel_. The Word . . . spake.


[_They all crowd round to the door and out of it. Only the_ ANGEL
_remains crouching immovable, his face hidden_.]



                               SCENE III

SCENE: _The Stable at the Plough. It is a high-roofed barn, and the
rafters show dimly in the light of the lanterns by which it is lighted.
One lantern is fixed to a wooden column, supporting the roof as a
cathedral pillar supports the vaulting. The other stands on a low stool
beside the manger. In the manger lies the Baby asleep and wrapped in a
shawl; on either side of it, gazing upon the sleeping child in the
lantern light, sit_ JOSEPH _and_ MARY. _He wears the clothes of a
respectable artisan, dark and clumsy; she wears a blue stuff gown, with
a shawl over her head and shoulders after the manner of the gipsies.
Behind them is the big stable door, opening out into the yard. The
bottom half only is closed, and through the top can be seen haystacks
and an oast-house in the bright winter moonlight. The door leading from
the inn is on, the right. On the left, behind the manger, a wide ladder
or staircase leads up into the stable-loft, and on this, tier by tier,
sits the_ ANGEL CHOIR, _Angels dressed in white, but dim and indefinite
in the lantern's glow and the shadows that come down from the roof_.

_The_ ANGEL CHOIR _Sings the Introit of the Midnight Mass of Christmas_.


_Angel Choir_. The Lord said unto me: Thou art my son, this day have I
begotten thee.
Why do the heathen so furiously rage together: and why do the people
imagine a vain thing?

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost: as it was
in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

The Lord said unto me: Thou art my son, this day have I begotten thee.


[_As the song ceases, the door from the inn opens and the_ GIPSIES _come
filing in, with the_ LANDLADY _and the_ THREE LOOKERS.]


_Landlady_. I hope you'll forgive me, my love, but I've brought these
folk in to wish you a happy Christmas.

_Joseph_ [_rising_]. We are glad to see them.

_Mary_. They are our kinsfolk.

_Joseph_. We know them all. Why, this is good indeed. Here's Abraham and
Moses and David and Elijah and Isaiah.

_Mary_. And Miriam and Hannah--yes, and old Eva herself has come.
Greetings, Mother!


[EVA _comes hobbling towards_ MARY.]


_Mary_ [_kissing her_]. Eva!

_Eva_. Ave!


[_They embrace, and the_ ANGEL CHOIR _sings "When Eva kissed Mary_."]


_Choir_. When Eva kissed Mary,
          The whole earth was glad,
         The little birds sang
          For the joy that they had.

         Her sins were forgiven
          At Christ's happy birth;
         "There's hope for me now, dears,"
          Said old Mother Earth.
            Sing Eva, sing Ave,
            With old Mother Earth.

         When Mary kissed Eva
          The whole earth was fair,
         There were flowers in the grass,
          There were songs in the air.
         Her sons were restored her
          At Christ's happy birth;
        "There's joy for me now, dears,
         Said old Mother Earth.
           Sing Eva, sing Ave,
           With old Mother Earth.


[_The_ GIPSIES _and the_ LANDLADY _gather round_ JOSEPH _and_ MARY _and
the sleeping_ CHILD, _but the three_ LOOKERS _remain by the door, too
shy to join the others_.]


_Joseph_. Who are these three good men?

_Landlady_. I'm sure I don't know. They came in with the Angel of the
Lord.

_David_. Where's the Angel?

_Moses_. Didn't he come in with us?

_Elijah_. No. He can't have, as he isn't here. What's happened, I
wonder.

_David_. Here he is.


[_They all look towards the door, and the_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _appears,
with bent head and slow dragging footsteps. The_ ANGEL CHOIR _sings_.]


_Choir_. Oh see my humility and deliver me, for I do not forget thy law.

Avenge thou my cause and deliver me: quicken me according to thy word.


[_The_ ANGEL _falls on his knees, with hands stretched out towards the_
CHILD. _The company stares at him in some bewilderment_.]


_Angel_. I cannot bear to see thee so, a little lower than the angels.
Thy throne, O God, endureth for ever and ever. Thou, Lord, in the
beginning hast laid the foundation of the earth; and the heavens are the
works of thine hands: they shall perish, but thou remainest; and they
all shall wax old as doth a garment, and as a vesture shalt thou fold
them up and they shall be changed; but thou art the same, and thy years
shall not fail.

_Mary_ [_clutching the_ CHILD _to her bosom_]. Oh, my baby!


[DAVID _goes to the_ ANGEL _and puts a hand upon his shoulder_.]


_David_. Be of good cheer, friend. Those words are true--I sang them
myself once in a song. But you mustn't take them too much to heart.
We're all here to be happy and friendly to-night, you and I and the
child and the poor people--and those three lookers too, who daren't
stand away from the door, poor fellows--I'll wager they're a bit scared
with all this.


[_The_ ANGEL _recovers himself and stands up_.]


_Angel_. You are right, David. Now is not the time for such thoughts, or
rather for such words, for the thoughts are behind any words we say
to-night. I came here to show you the child, but I failed you because
for a moment I could not see him as a child. You have seen him as a
child, so now you must show him to me.


[DAVID _and_ MOSES _lead the_ ANGEL _to the manger_. MARY _lifts the
shawl, and the_ ANGEL _kneels and kisses the_ CHILD'S _face_.]


_Angel_. Welcome, little baby. [_He rises and turns to the_ THREE
LOOKERS, _who still huddle together by the door_.] My friends, forgive
me. I owe you a better welcome than this. Come to the manger. [_The_
LOOKERS _come forward_.] Mary and Joseph, here is Their Looker at
Wickham [_presenting him_], Their Looker at Leasan, and Their Looker at
Slinches [_presenting them too_].

_Joseph_. We bid you welcome.

_Mary_. Is he not a lovely child?


[_The_ THREE LOOKERS _bow the knee and pull their forelocks_. DAVID
_comes forward with a fine gesture_.]


_David_. We all greet you. Let me introduce our company. The ladies
first. Here [_presenting her_] is old Mother Eva, the oldest of us all,
and, as we say, the Mother of all living. Here is Hannah, the mother of
many fine children. Her eldest son, Samuel, is gone to be trained as a
clergyman. Here is Miriam, who can dance, and play on the cymbals. [_He
turns to the gipsy men_.] Here is Isaiah, who dreams dreams and sees
visions, as, for that matter, do we all, though not so fine as his. Here
is Elijah, who has led a roving life and seen strange places--he's
always been in trouble with the gentry, and now Squire Herod's after
him. Here are two very old men--Abraham, who is nearly as old as Eva,
and Moses, who used to rule this tribe before me. 'Twas he who brought
them long ago from across the sea, and he was king of them all the time
they were wandering up and down Wales. But one stormy night he was lost
on a mountain, a wild Welsh mountain, and when he was found strange
things had happened to him and the manner of his countenance was
changed. So our people made me king instead, but he comes with us, and
often talks of the strange things that happened when he was lost on the
mountain in Wales.

_Moses_. Aye, strange things, terrible things. I have seen that which no
other man has seen and lived.

_David_. He is also one of our singers. Come, folks, what do you say to
some music now? Let us sing our songs before the young child.

_All_. Yes, let us have music--
       Let us sing our songs--
       Moses shall begin--
       Moses, sing us "The Horse and his Rider"--
       Aye, "The Horse and his Rider"!

_Miriam_. I will play for him on my cymbals.


[MIRIAM _takes a pair of cymbals out of her shawl, and clashes them
rhythmically as old_ MOSES _sings, standing, while the others sit in the
straw of the stable_.]


_Moses_ [_sings_]:

       I will sing to the Lord
         Who hath triumphed gloriously--
       The horse and his rider
         Are drowned in the sea.

       The chariots of Pharaoh
         Were harnessed with might,
       His war-horses thundered
         Through day and through night.
But the Lord is a warrior--
  The Lord is his name:
He smote the Egyptian
  And brought him to shame.


The waters were gathered
  Right up in a heap,
And congealed were the floods
  In the heart of the deep,
      Till Pharaoh rode through them
        All furiously.
      Then the horse and his rider
        Were drowned in the sea.


The people shall hear it,
  Our terror shall spread,
Throughout Palestina
  They know of our dread.
      O Jehovah of Hosts,
        Who is like unto thee?
      The horse and his rider
        Are drowned in the sea.


The great duke of Edom
  Was mighty amazed,
The marquis of Moab
  Turned weak as he gazed.
      They were still as a stone
        In the fear of thy might,
      When thy people passed over
        That terrible night.


The poor people's children
  Went through on dry land,
All lowly and glad
  For their Lord was at hand.
      O sing to the Lord
        Who hath triumphed gloriously,
      The horse and his rider
        Are drowned in the sea.


_Angel_. That's a good song, Moses.

_David_. It's all about the time when we came from the far country. I
was only a little chap then, but they tell me the waters of the sea
divided, and our people walked over without wetting a shoe. Then their
enemies came after them, and the water rushed back and drowned the lot.
Next morning our people saw them dead upon the sea shore.

_Angel_. It's a fine story, and I'm glad Moses has made a song of it.
You have made songs too, David.

_David_. Indeed, I have made many songs.

_Angel_. And about this child. Sing us a song about the child.

_All_. Aye, sing us a song about the child.

_David_. I'll sing you the Song of the Two Lords.

_All_. That's a gorgeous song!
       Sing us the Two Lords!


[DAVID _stands up and sings "The Two Lords' Song_."]

_David_. Two Lords across the heavens spake,
         And like the poplar trees a-shake
         The heavens shuddered at the word
         That the Lord spake unto my Lord.

         "Sit thou, O King, on my right hand,
         Till thou hast smitten every land.
         Be ruler over every foe
         As forth from Sion thy thunders go.

         "With offerings glad and offerings free
         Shall a great nation worship thee:
         The morning's womb did flood the earth
         With dew as rivers at thy birth.

         "An oath I never shall deny
         I made thee from my throne on high,
         An everlasting priest art thou,
         A king to whom the world shall bow.

         "O judge the heathen, smite the dead,
         Then sweetly stoop thy crowned head
         To drink from out the wayside stream,
         And bless thy Lord who blessed thy dream."

         Two Lords across the heavens sped--
         The heavens bowed, the heavens fled,
         When swinging high his furious sword
         The Lord rode off beside my Lord.


[_The_ GIPSIES _Clap their hands_.]


_Miriam_. I always liked that song, though I don't know what it means.

_Joseph_. Is it about the child?

_David_. Of course it is about the child.

_Mary_. I will keep all these sayings in my heart.

_Angel_. And now, perhaps one of our three Lookers has a song.

_Elijah_. Yes, let's have a song from them for a change.


[_The_ THREE LOOKERS _giggle self-consciously and nudge each other_.]


_Leasan_. That ain't much in our line, sir.

_Angel_. You were singing lustily when I first saw you.

_Wickham_ [_sniggering_]. There's old Mr. Stuppeny. He's the one to
sing.

_Slinches_. Maybe I could sing a bit if some one ud play Spiffkins in F.
Reckon that's the only piece I know--so as to sing praaper and as before
quality, I mean.

_Angel_. Well, sing us the bit from Spiffkins in F.

_Slinches_. I don't know as I can rightly start it all by myself. Some
one's got to give me the first part.

_Angel_. Here's the Angel Choir to do it.

_Slinches_. Do they know Spiffkins in F?

_Angel_. Of course they know it--well.

_Slinches_ [_impressed_]. Do they, now! I'll tell Parson that when he
takes the old music away and gives us new.


[WICKAM _sniggers. The_ ANGEL _looks at him sternly_.]


_Angel_. Sing it to us now, Mr. Stuppeny. We're all waiting to hear you.


[_The_ ANGEL CHOIR _starts to sing the Gloria in Excelsis Deo as
musicked by one Spiffkins, a light of the eighteen-eighties. Take so
much sweetness_ _from Gounod, with a tinkle of Tours, so much
meaninglessness from Stanford and Stainer, so much big noise from Silas,
so much ineptitude from any organist-composer, and the result of the
mixture is Spiffkins in F. It opens loudly and joyfully:_ "Glory be to
God on High" _(pp. suddenly)_ "and on earth peace, goodwill towards men"
_(ff. just as suddenly)_. "We praise thee, we bless thee, we glorify
thee, we give thanks to thee for thy great glory, O Lord God, heavenly
King, God the Father Almighty."

_The voices cease. Every one looks towards the old shepherd, standing
alone in the midst_.]


_Angel_ [_in a low voice_]. Now, Mr. Stuppeny.

_Slinches_ [_singing towards the crib_]. O Lord the only-begotten Son,
Jesus Christ. O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father. . . .


[_At first it is only his cracked old voice straining and struggling at
the notes_. WICKHAM _smiles at_ LEASAN, _who shakes his head, a little
ashamed. But gradually the_ LOOKER'S _voice seems miraculously to
acquire music, strength and youth_.]


Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Thou that takest away the sins of the world, receive our prayer.
Thou that sittest at the right hand of God the Father, have mercy upon
us.


[_He ceases_. MARY _and_ JOSEPH _smile him their pleasure and
congratulation. The_ GIPSIES _nod approvingly at him and at each other.
The_ ANGEL _claps his hands, as, after a grudging interval, do_ WICKHAM
_and_ LEASAN. _Meanwhile the_ ANGEL CHOIR _has resumed Spiffkins in F,
which seems to share in the musical apotheosis, and ends in not
inglorious reminiscences of Gounod_.]


_Angel Choir_. (_ff_.). For thou only art holy, thou only art the Lord.
Thou only, O Christ, with the Holy Ghost, art most high in the glory of
God the Father.



                                SCENE IV

SCENE: _The same as Scene III, and the company is as before, save that
the_ LANDLADY _is absent_. MARY _and_ JOSEPH _are seated each side of
the Manger, round which the_ GIPSIES _stand in a semicircle. The_ THREE
LOOKERS _are grouped together on the left, on the right stands the_
ANGEL OF THE LORD. _The heads of all are bowed, and the hands folded in
prayer. The_ ANGEL CHOIR _is in its old place and sings the Gradual of
the Midnight Mass_.


_Choir_. In the day of Thy power shall the people offer thee free-will
offerings with an holy worship: the dew of thy birth is of the womb of
the morning.

The Lord said unto my Lord: sit thou on my right hand until I make thine
enemies thy footstool.

Alleluya, alleluya! The Lord said unto me: Thou art my Son, this day
have I begotten thee. Alleluya!


[_As they cease the_ LANDLADY _comes in_.]


_Landlady_. My dear, more visitors have come to see our little love, and
this time they're very grand people. May I bring them in?

_Angel_. Who are they?

_Landlady_. Three wise men from Oxford and Cambridge.


[_The Company is impressed_.]


_Joseph_. Do you feel able to see them, my dear?

_Mary_. They're welcome since they've come so far.

_Landlady_. They've driven all the way in a motor.

_Joseph_. How did they know about the child?

_Landlady_. They say they read about him in their books.

_Angel_. Go and bring them in.


[LANDLADY _goes out, and as she closes the door the_ ANGEL CHOIR
_sings_.]


_Choir_. All they from Saba shall come bringing gold and incense, and
shall show forth the praises of the Lord. Arise and shine, O Jerusalem:
for the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.

Alleluya, alleluya! We have seen his star in the east, and are come with
offerings to worship the Lord. Alleluya.


[_While they are singing the door opens and the_ THREE WISE MEN _from
Oxford and Cambridge come in. They are respectively an_ ASTRONOMER, _a_
BIOLOGIST _and a_ MATHEMATICIAN. _The_ ASTRONOMER _is an old man with a
long white beard, the_ BIOLOGIST _is middle-aged, the_ MATHEMATICIAN
_quite young. They advance rather diffidently towards the Manger_.

_The_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _comes forward to greet them_.]


_Angel_. Welcome, gentlemen. I'm glad to see you. Here is the Marvel.
Here is the World's Wonder.

_Mathematician_ [_speaking in an Oxford voice_]. Yes, we are all glad to
be here. Now we see the End of our Sciences.

_Biologist_ [_speaking in a Cambridge voice_]. And the Beginning.

_Angel_. Did you come easily to Udimore?

_Astronomer_ [_speaking in the slow, meticulous voice of cultivated old
age_]. All went well till we were within a few miles. Then we lost
ourselves--the cross roads were confusing. But we stopped at a Manor
House and they set us on the way.

_Angel_. Which Manor was it?

_Astronomer_. I believe it is called Cock Marling.


[_There is a stir in the company_.]


_Angel_. And you saw the Squire?

_Biologist_. Yes. The Squire was at dinner, but when he heard from the
butler what we wanted he came out himself and spoke to us. He said he
had heard that a child was born in the stable of the Plough at Udimore,
though he himself had not seen it. He bade us go and give our greetings,
and then call in on our way back and tell him if it was indeed as he had
been told.

_The Company_. Phew!
               Ah!
               That old fox!
               Shame!


[_The_ WISE MEN _look surprised_.]

_Biologist_. Have we done wrong?

_Angel_. You must on no account go back to Cock Marling. Squire Herod
has a grudge against this child, and will do him some harm if he finds
him. However, there's no danger at the present moment, and you can
easily go back to Oxford and Cambridge by another way.

_Astronomer_. Yes, we can go by the Kent road.

_Angel_. That will be best. But now tell me, how is it that you heard
the child was born?

_Mathematician_. I was working in my study and I found the Sum of all
the Universe and the Number of its Name. Then I knew that Christ was
born.

_Biologist_. I was working in my laboratory, and I saw inorganic matter
come to life and life to consciousness. Then I knew that Christ was
born.

_Astronomer_. I was working in my observatory, and I saw that a new star
had risen over against the Pole where the Dragon stood no more. Then I
knew that Christ was born.

_Mathematician_. So we have all come to bring him our gifts, the
instruments by which we found him.


[_The_ MATHEMATICIAN _displays a measure and compasses, the_ BIOLOGIST
_holds up a microscope, and the_ ASTRONOMER _a quadrant and map of the
stars. They turn, and going solemnly to the Manger, present their gifts
to the_ CHILD, _kneeling. As they offer them the_ ANGEL CHOIR _sings the
Offertory of the Midnight Mass_.]


_Choir_. Let the heavens rejoice and let the earth be glad before the
Lord: for he is come.

_Angel_. Well done--well given. And now let me introduce you to three
other friends of mine, who can give you the only wisdom that you lack.
Come, let me present you--Mr. Mathematician, Their Looker at
Wickham--Mr. Biologist, Their Looker at Leasan--Mr. Astronomer, Their
Looker at Slinches.


[_The_ THREE WISE MEN _shake hands with the_ THREE LOOKERS _and the_
ANGEL CHOIR _Sings "Shepherds and Sages_."]

Shepherds and sages
  Come and adore.
Seek no further and
  Seek no more.

The sage travelled far
  With a map and machine,
The shepherd came clodhopping
  Over the green.

One crossed a country
  The other a stile,
One came a month's march
  The other a mile.

No matter the way
  Or the distance they came,
The end of the journey
  Was just the same.

Shepherds and sages
  Met at the tryst,
Wisdom and innocence
  Meet in Christ.

Shepherds and sages,
  Kneel and adore.
Here is the mystery,
  Seek no more.


[_Enter_ LANDLADY.]


_Landlady_. The news has got about. More folk have come. Here's a parson
and a beggar and all the little school-children waiting in my bar and
asking me if they may come and look at the baby.

_Angel_. Who is the parson? Not Mr. Archdeacon Caiaphas?

_Landlady_. Oh no, sir. He's dining with Squire Herod to-night. This is
Mr. Stephen from Winchelsea, and he's not a proper parson, as you might
say--at least he's not quite finished yet.

_Angel_. I see--in deacon's orders.

_Landlady_. That's it. But in spite of his being only just begun, they
do say that he's an unaccountable clever and promising young man. Does a
lot of good among the poor, and preaches lovely.

_Elijah_. But I hear he's in trouble with Archdeacon Caiaphas and some
of the other great parsons. They don't hold with all he does.

_Wickham_. Bishop Saul of Chichester threatened to put him out of the
Church, I'm told.

_Landlady_. Dear, dear! I've always found him so pretty spoken, and an
unaccountable good-looking lad.

_Angel_. Bring him in.


[_As the_ LANDLADY _goes out to bring in_ MR. STEPHEN _the_ ANGEL CHOIR
_sings:_]


_Angel Choir_. Princes, moreover, did sit and did witness falsely
against me: and the ungodly pressed sore upon me: O Lord my God, stand
up to help me, for Thy servant is occupied continually in Thy
commandments.


[_During the singing young_ MR. STEPHEN _the Deacon comes in. He is
dressed in cassock and surplice, with his deacon's stole worn over his
shoulder. He is handsome, young and shy, and,_ _saluting the_ ANGEL OF
THE LORD, JOSEPH _and_ MARY, _comes diffidently to the manger_.]


_Stephen_. I see the heavens opened and Jesus standing at the right hand
of the power of God. Alleluya.


[_Enter_ LANDLADY _with old_ JOHN, _the blind beggar, leaning on her
arm. He is an immensely old man with a long white beard, and carries a
lantern which he holds before him_.]


_Angel Choir_ [_sings_]. In the midst of the congregation he opened his
mouth: and the Lord filled him with the spirit of wisdom and
understanding, he clothed him with a robe of glory.


[_The_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _takes old_ JOHN'S _hand from the_ LANDLADY'S
_and leads him towards the manger. The old man gropes for the baby's
face, strokes it and peers at it, while the_ ANGEL _holds the lantern
over the sleeping_ CHILD.]


_John_ [_turning to the company_]. That which was from the beginning,
which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our
hands have handled of the word of life--that which we have seen and
heard declare we unto you. This then is the message which we declare
unto you: that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all. If we
walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with
another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all
sin.

_Landlady_. Shall I let the school-children come in? They want terribly
to come and see the little child, but I thought maybe they'd be too
noisy.

_Angel_. What says the mother? Will they be too noisy and too many?

_Mary_. Oh no, let them come, the pretty innocents.


[_Exit_ LANDLADY.]


_Angel Choir_. Out of the mouth of very babes, O God, and of sucklings,
hast thou perfected praise: because of thine adversaries.


[_The_ SCHOOL CHILDREN _come dancing in, hand in hand, in a string, to
the tune of "Boys and girls come out to play." They dance gaily round
the manger, till the_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _claps his hands_.]


_Angel_. Not so much noise, children. The little baby must sleep.
Besides, we don't want Squire Herod to hear us.

_School Children_. O-o-o!
Hush, hush, hush, here comes the Bogey Man! O-o-o! [_They subside into
giggles, standing in a half ring round the manger, in front of the_
GIPSIES.]

_Angel_. Is everybody here?

_Landlady_. As far as I know.


[_Distant bells are heard ringing_.]


_Leasan_. Hullo! There go Brookland bells down on the Marsh.


[_Another peal is heard mingling with the first_.]


_Slinches_. And Fairfield. They're ringing at Fairfield.


[_The bells grow louder and nearer_.]


_Wickham_. That's Rye.

_David_. And up on the coast. I hear Playden.

_Elijah_. And Iden.

_Moses_. And Peasmarsh.

_Hannah_. And Beckley.

_Isaiah_. And Guldeford.

_Miriam_. And Winchelsea.

_Eva_. Oh! Oh! Oh! And all the dead churches of Broomhill that were
drowned in the year of the Flood.


[_The noise of the bells becomes deafening and the company_--GIPSIES,
SHEPHERDS, CHILDREN, _even the_ WISE MEN--_show signs of fear_.]


_Angel_. Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid of the
Canterbury bells.

_All_ [_excitedly_]. Canterbury bells! Canterbury bells!


[_The sounds of galloping horses mingle with the bells. They clatter in
the yard. The door swings open, and in dashes_ ST. THOMAS a BECKET,
_Archbishop of Canterbury, vested for Mass, with his deacon and
sub-deacon in dalmatic and tunicle. He is a big, splendid man, dark and
with hawklike eye--by every token the "turbulent priest" of whom Henry
sought riddance to his undoing_.]


_Angel Choir_. Rejoice we all in the Lord, keeping holy day in honour of
blessed Thomas the Martyr: in whose passion the Angels rejoice and
glorify the Son of God.

_Angel_. Welcome, mighty prelate! Welcome, Canterbury!

_Thomas_ [_breathlessly_]. I was at Midnight Mass in my Cathedral Church
of Canterbury, and the sub-deacon had just sung the last note of the
epistle, when they brought me the message "Christus natus est." I leaped
into the saddle, and galloped off with my ministers, and as we thundered
over the roads, all the three marshes of Walland, Dunge and Romney sang
the Gradual together: "In the day of thy power shall the people offer
thee freewill offerings with an holy worship: the dew of thy birth is of
the womb of the morning." It is right and fitting that an Anglican
archbishop at Mass in his Cathedral, should ride over to greet the
Christ between the Epistle and the Gospel. It is to my everlasting joy
that the Son of God was born in the village of Udimore in the Province
of Canterbury, and here I decree that in memory of this night every
Anglican bishop shall henceforward wear riding clothes for ever and
ever.

_Angel Choir_ [_sings "The Anglican Bishop" to the tune of "Bonnie
Dundee_"].

The Anglican Bishop, so gay and so grand,
With his cross on his breast and his ring on his hand
Goes girded and gaitered, all ready to ride,
Because of the gallop of one Christmastide.
O, Mr. Archdeacon, come hurry, my man,
To saddle, to saddle, as fast as you can.
    Go galloping, galloping, over the lea,
    For the Saviour is born, and we ride there to see.

The mighty Archbishop was vested in state,
In cope and in mitre, as suits a prelate.
But when he was told that the Saviour was near
He mounted his horse and rode off with a cheer.
His deacon and sub-deacon out they both ran
"To saddle, to saddle, as quick as you can!
    St. Thomas goes riding in haste and in awe
    To worship the Lord in his stable of straw."

Let each Anglican bishop henceforward, says he,
Be gaitered and girt in a pattern of me,
Who rode through the midnight, my Saviour to greet,
And lay all my province in love at his feet.
So bring me my gaiters, Archdeacon my man,
My hat and my apron as fast as you can.
    For I must go galloping over the lea.
    The Saviour is born and I ride there to see.

_Thomas_ [_to his_ MINISTERS]. Come, fathers, we cannot wait. Already
the pale gleam is on the dykes of the Marsh, and in my Cathedral the
Canons sing "The Lord be with you." We must return to greet them "And
with thy spirit," that the Holy Gospel may begin and the world may know
that Christ is born.


[ST. THOMAS _and his_ MINISTERS _make their reverence to the manger as
to the Altar at the end of Mass, and without further greetings go out to
the resumed clashing of Canterbury bells. The bells rise to terrible
music, then die away. The_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _comes into the midst of
the company_.]


_Angel_. You heard what the Archbishop said? He said that already the
pale gleam is on the dykes of the Marsh. The morning is not far off. Our
rejoicings for the time must cease. The Mother's head droops. She is
weary. My good friends, we have met very pleasantly here, but now it is
time to go. You, children [_to the_ SCHOOL CHILDREN], are already
beginning to yawn--be off with you at once.


[_The_ SCHOOL CHILDREN _join hands as before and run out in a string to
the tune of "Salvete flores martyrum_."]


_Landlady_ [_taking old_ JOHN _by the hand_]. And it's time this old man
had his rest. I'll see him home. [_Leads old_ JOHN _to the door. On the
threshold he turns back, lifting high his lantern_.]

_John_. And we beheld his glory, even as of the only-begotten of the
Father, full of grace and truth.

_All_. Thanks be to God.

_Stephen_. I must be going too, for I have to be up early this Christmas
morning.

_Angel_. Good night, Mr. Stephen, and may the Lord deliver you from your
persecutors.

_Stephen_. No doubt he will deliver me in his own way and his own time.
[_He goes out_.]

_Angel_ [_to the_ THREE LOOKERS]. And now, my three good friends, you
may return to your sheep. T warrant that you will never have had a
better lambing than that which took place while you were away paying
your duty to the Lamb of God.

_Leasan_. I'd be sorry for Squire to think Christmas a good time for
lambing.

_Angel_. I'm afraid that after this he will. You will be surprised when
you get back to the Marsh.

_Leasan_. And the ewes?

_Angel_. Not one of 'em lost.

_Leasan_. Well, I'm sure we're very grateful to you, sir, for all you've
done for us.

_Wickham_. You've shown us a fine sight.

_Slinches_. One that we'll never disremember. And reckon I'll be able to
bear that furrin music in Church to-morrow--or maybe I should say this
marnun--seeing how I've heard Spiffkins sung by angels to-night and sung
wud them too myself.

_Leasan_. Now don't you go boasting, Mr. Stuppeny.

_Slinches_. I'll make sure as all the parish knows.

_Angel_. Come, come, don't argue. It's time you were off--young men to
work, old men to bed. Good morning and good night.

_The Three Lookers_. Good night, sir.
Good night.
A Merry Christmas.
And thank you kindly.


[_The_ THREE LOOKERS _are about to go out when the_ THREE WISE MEN _come
forward_.]


_Mathematician_. I was going to suggest that we give them a lift in our
car down to the Marsh.

_Biologist_. There's plenty of room.

_Astronomer_. And we're going back by the Kent road.

_Angel_. Yes, don't go by Cock Marling on any account. You know which
road to take? Drive straight to Rye, and through the town, and then turn
northward at Guldeford. Your way lies by Iden and over Wet Level to the
Isle of Oxney. God-speed.


[_The_ LOOKERS _and the_ WISE MEN _go out together_.]


_Slinches_ [_as they go_]. Reckon it ull be fine to ride in a motoring
car with the Three Wise Men. Reckon that ull be another thing for me to
tell the neighbours. [_Exit_.]

_Angel_ [_turning to the_ GIPSIES]. And you, my friends, who have
to-night seen your songs come to life and your dreams come true, it is
time that you too went out again. You are wanderers and outlaws, you
never pitch your camp for more than a few days, but now, no matter how
far you wander, you have a home. Your home is here. Here is open house,
and every wanderer's rest. Meanwhile, your God goes with you, in the
fire and in the cloud, as he went before. You are not fatherless, for
doubtless he is your Father, and you are not childless, for unto you
this night a Child is born, unto you a Son is given.

_David_ [_coming forward and standing before the manger_]. My people and
I will pray before we go.


[_The_ GIPSIES _stand with bowed heads while he prays_.]


_David_ [_prays_]. O Lord God of our Fathers, God of Abraham, God of
Isaac, God of Jacob; God of the height and of the deep; of the houses of
the stars, of the sweet influences of sun and rain; God of the roads and
of the fields and of the marshes and of the waters; hear the prayer of
thy servants and speed them in their ways wheresoever they may wander.
Dwell with them in the fire of their camp and in the clouds that race
their footsteps in the sky, dwell with them in their songs and in their
dances, in their pleasures and adversities, joys and griefs, and bring
them at last, of the goodness of this night, to the Promised Land, to
the home and the rest that await them at the journey's end, and the
Supper thou hast spread for them at the fall of the day, in the land
which thou didst promise of old to Abraham and his seed, Who livest
Almighty for ever and ever. Amen.


[_The_ GIPSIES _file out, and as they go the_ ANGEL CHOIR _sings_.]

_Angel Choir_.

The poor people's children
  Went through on dry land,
All lowly and glad
  For their Lord was at hand.
O sing to the Lord
  Who hath triumphed gloriously--
The horse and his rider
  Are drowned in the sea.


[_The_ GIPSIES _take up the refrain and sing it as their voices die
away_.]


_Gipsies_ [_singing refrain_].

The horse and his rider
  Are drowned in the sea,
The horse and his rider . . .
The horse and his rider . . .


[_Already the dawn is appearing in the sky. The oast-house and the
haystacks are outlined against a pinkish grey, and a pearly light is
fighting with the lanterns in the stable. The_ ANGEL OF THE LORD _turns
to_ JOSEPH, _who has risen and leans upon his staff_.]


_Angel_. I fear the Mother must be tired. I will leave you now. You have
time for a few hours' sleep, then I advise you to pack up at once and go
off into Kent before Herod sends the police here.

_Joseph_. What about my farm? I came here to see to the taxing of Lower
Float which belongs to my family.

_Angel_. You can come back again. When Herod's wrath is over I will
bring you word. But meanwhile there is no safety for the young child and
his mother this side of the Kent Ditch. So get to rest now in
preparation for the journey.

_Joseph_. We will, and thank you for your warning.


[_The_ ANGEL _goes to the door_.]


_Angel_. The dawn is here, though not yet the day. We have passed from
midnight to Aurora. Lux fulgebit. Light shall shine to-day upon us: for
unto us the Lord is born. Fare you well. [_With arm uplifted in salute
he goes out through the open door_.]


[JOSEPH _goes up to_ MARY _and puts his arm round her for a moment. He
then returns to his old place on the further side of the Manger, but
this time he kneels_. MARY _kneels down too, and for a minute they form
the conventional group of the Christmas crib_--MARY _and_ JOSEPH _and
the_ YOUNG CHILD _lying in a manger. The daylight deepens as the_ ANGEL
CHOIR _sings the Communion of the Midnight Mass of Christmas_.]


_Angel Choir_. The dew of Thy birth: is of the womb of the morning.


[_A cock crows_.]

                                THE END



                       THE SHEPHERD OF LATTENDEN

                      A PASSION PLAY IN SIX SCENES



                               CHARACTERS


THE SHEPHERD OF LATTENDEN.

PETER
JAMES    His three companions.
JOHN

ANDREW
THOMAS
PHILIP
BARTHOLOMEW     Eight other disciples.
MATTHEW
SIMON
JUDE
JAMES

JUDAS--a disciple who betrayed him.
THE SHEPHERDS MOTHER.
MARY MAGDALENE.
ANOTHER MARY.
SALOME.
JOANNA.
PONTIUS PILATE--Mayor of Rye.
ARCHDEACON CAIAPHAS
CANON ANNAS.
TWO ANGELS.
THE ANGEL CHOIR.



                                SCENE I
                            A Street in Rye.

                                SCENE II
                       The Hop-garden at Doleham.

                               SCENE III
                     An Ante-room in Rye Town Hall.

                                SCENE IV
                  Kitchen at a Farmhouse near Battle.

                                SCENE V
               Garden of Little Park Manor, near Battle.

                                SCENE VI
                        Lattenden-on-the-Marsh.



                       THE SHEPHERD OF LATTENDEN

                                SCENE I

SCENE: _A Street in Rye. Night has fallen and a few stars prick the sky
above the gables. The window of an upper room in one of the houses is
lit with yellow lamplight, against which shadows are seen to move. The
street is empty, and unlit. But the paschal moon is in the heavens, and
her light pours down upon the pavement and the cobblestones, almost as
bright as day._


_The Angel Choir sings invisibly:_

The sun is set, the shadows creep,
  The supper in the house is spread,
And he, the Shepherd of his sheep,
  Gives them his body for their bread.

The traitor's wicked plans are laid,
  The feet of foemen gather round,
But he, good Shepherd, unafraid,
  Pastures his flock in a fair ground.

He gives them strength and joy to eat
  --Strength of his flesh, joy of his blood--
His heart is broken for their meat,
  His soul is offered for their food.

Then to the Vale he goes alone--
  Only the Shepherd's feet shall tread
The darkness where that Wicked One
  Who steals his lambs is ambushed.


[_During the singing the shadow of the_ SHEPHERD _within has broken
shadowy bread and given it to shadowy forms moving against the lamp
light. As the hymn ceases_ CANON ANNAS _and_ ARCHDEACON CAIAPHAS _enter
the street below from opposite ends. They meet just under the Upper
Room_.]


_Caiaphas_. Well met, dear man.

_Annas_. Well met, indeed. [_They shake hands and pat each other on the
back_.]

_Caiaphas_. How goes our little plot?

_Annas_. Capital. I think you'll find everything pass off very smoothly.

_Caiaphas_. It'll be all over before Easter, I trust.

_Annas_. Oh yes, yes. You can depend on that.

_Caiaphas_. I really shouldn't like to have anything at all unpleasant
happen on the festival. Apart from one's wish to keep the day holy one
might have trouble with the crowds. They say he has a great influence
over crowds.

_Annas_. Yes, so I've heard. Those violent, ignorant types often
do--sort of animal magnetism, I suppose. Of course one feels dreadfully
sorry about it all. [_He sighs heavily_.] But it really can't be allowed
to go on.

_Caiaphas_. No, no. Of course not. Something must be done, and naturally
one's first consideration must be the Church and country in general.
Better that one man should die than have the whole Church involved, and
the Romans get us in the end.

_Annas_. And take away our Church and nation.

_Caiaphas_. That's it, that's it. We can't allow these fanatics to turn
the whole world upside down.

_Annas_. Well, once we get the ringleader . . . by the way, I came to
meet the excellent Judas. He's in there [_pointing to the house_], but
he said he'd come out directly they'd finished supper.

_Caiaphas_. Are they all in there?

_Annas_. Yes, I believe so. Mrs. Vidler lets them have an upstairs room
whenever they want it for their meetings and such. Judas said they would
be coming in from Udimore to keep the festival, and he'd meet me here
and let me know where they'd be to-night.

_Caiaphas_. To-night?

_Annas_. Yes, quite late. Then we can get him at once, and
quietly--Pilate can try him to-morrow--and it'll all be over before the
festival.

_Caiaphas_. Capital, my dear fellow. How splendidly you've organized it.

_Annas_ [_rubbing his hands_]. I rather pride myself on my organization.
But hark! I hear footsteps in the house--coming downstairs. That must be
Judas.


[_They look expectantly at the door. The_ ANGEL CHOIR _sings_.]


_Angel Choir_.

℣. Judas, that wicked trader, sold his Lord with a kiss.
℟. It had been good for that man if he had not been born.


[JUDAS _comes out of the door. He is a sullen looking country bumpkin,
and receives rather churlishly the clergymen's greeting_.]


_Annas_. Well, my good man, so you've kept your bargain with us.

_Judas_. They're going to Doleham gardens.

_Annas_. The hop-gardens?

_Judas_. That's right. They'll be there in a couple of hours.

_Annas_. And so will we. I can arrange for the police to be round
by--let me see--ten-thirty. I suppose your party mean to stay some time?

_Judas_. Reckon they do--preaching and praying. Shall I go wud them or
come wud you?

_Caiaphas_. You'd better come with us, to show us the way. Meet us
outside the Town Hall in half an hour.

_Judas_. Surelye. [_He shambles off, looking very hangdog about it
all_.]

_Caiaphas_. Capital fellow, Judas.

_Annas_. Yes, indeed. He's charging us rather heavily, though--thirty
pounds--a lot to ask. But we're not exactly in a position to bargain. We
can easily raise the money--a bazaar, perhaps, or a sale of work. . . .

_Caiaphas_. Quite so. Anyhow, I'm glad he's got away from that gang. I
believe he joined them with high hopes, but soon found it was all
moonshine--and worse.

_Annas_. That Shepherd must be quite impossible--the mentality of a
Maltese peasant, I should say.

_Caiaphas_. But devout.

_Annas_ [_shrugging_]. And blasphemous. [_He takes the Archdeacon's arm
and they stroll off down the street together_.]

_Caiaphas_ [_as they go_]. I should have thought the kind of company he
keeps would put him out of repute with decent people.

_Annas_. It has. Only the poorer classes will have anything to do with
him now. . . .


[_The street is empty for a moment, then footsteps are heard once more
within the house, but this time it is many footsteps. The door opens and
the_ SHEPHERD _comes out with his companions. He wears a shepherd's
smock_. PETER, JAMES _and_ JOHN _are fishermen, wearing jerseys and
loose trousers, with gold rings in their ears. The others are dressed in
the style of labourers and small tradesmen, except_ MATTHEW, _who looks
fairly prosperous, with a gold chain across his waistcoat, and_ SIMON,
_who is in a semi-clerical outfit, as if he belonged to a religious
society_.]


_The Shepherd_. You will all forsake me to-night, for it is written: I
will smite the shepherd and the sheep shall be scattered. But after I am
risen again, I will go before you to the Marsh, and wait for you to come
to me.

_Peter_. I never will forsake you. All the others may forsake you, but I
never will.

_The Shepherd_. Indeed. But I tell you, Peter, that before the cock
crows to-morrow morning you will deny that you ever knew me.

_Peter_. I will do no such thing. I'd sooner die.

_The Others_ [_clamouring loudly_]. So would we all--
We'd sooner die--
We'll never forsake you--
We'd sooner die!


[_They go off down the street, the company protesting, the_ SHEPHERD
_walking calmly in their midst_.]



                               SCENE II.

SCENE: _The Hop Garden at Doleham. The Easter moon is bright. She is
like a ship sailing the dark waters of the sky. Though she rides
smoothly there is about her an air of terror, as if once more the waters
of space were in storm. Her radiance has wiped out the stars. It sweeps
down into the hop-garden of Doleham, bathing it in a flood of light so
brilliant that colours are visible--the green of the hedge, with the
yellow clumps of the primroses beneath it, the green of the young bines,
only half-way to their crowns. Over the hedge rise the oast-houses of
Doleham, their roofs shining red in the celestial light. A distant song
is heard. It draws nearer, and the words of a psalm are distinguishable._


_Voices_. Hear me, O Lord, for thy loving-kindness is comfortable: turn
thee unto me according to the multitude of thy mercies.

And hide not thy face from thy servant, for I am in trouble: O haste
thee and hear me.

Draw nigh unto my soul and save it: O deliver me because of mine
enemies.


[_The_ SHEPHERD _enters the hop-garden with_ PETER, JAMES _and_ JOHN,
_singing as they walk. They look tired and beaten_.]


_Disciples_ [_singing_]. Thou hast known my reproof, my shame and my
dishonour: mine adversaries are all in thy sight.

Thy rebuke hath broken my heart; I am full of heaviness: I looked for
some to have pity on me, but there was no man, neither found I any to
comfort me.

_Peter_ [_breaking up the singing and throwing himself upon the
ground_]. Reckon I'm tired.

_James and John_ [_also throwing themselves down_]. And I----
And I.


[_The_ SHEPHERD _remains standing before them_.]


_Shepherd_. I am full of heaviness.

_Peter_. So are we all. Master, sit down and rest. Reckon we've come
further than we should ought.


[_The_ SHEPHERD _shakes his head_.]


_Shepherd_. My soul is sorrowful. I am afraid. Wait here with me while I
pray. Do not leave me.

_Peter_ [_lazily_]. We aren't likely to run away, Shepherd. We're too
mortal tired.


[_The_ SHEPHERD _looks at them sadly, then goes off among the hop-bines
which have made him a tent of shadow. The three disciples settle
themselves under the hedge. The voices of hidden and grieving angels are
heard. Their singing is like the sigh of the wind through the hedge and
through the hop-bines--there are tears in it like hidden water. It is
sweet, and not quite human, for the angels do not grieve as man, their
grief belongs to the ages before the world began, and is like the voice
of stars singing sorrowfully together_.]


_Angel Choir_.

℣. In the hop-garden he prayed, saying
   O my Father, if it be possible let this cup pass from me.
   The Spirit indeed is willing
   But the flesh is weak.

℟. Watch and pray
   That ye enter not into temptation.
   The spirit indeed is willing
   But the flesh is weak.

_John_. Did you hear that? Was that music?

_Peter_. I don't like it. I'm afraid here.


[_They huddle closer to one another_.]


_James_. I don't like any of it--anything that's happening now. It's all
changed, somehow. We were doing valiant, and now--I don't know what it
is, but it's different.

_Peter_. Let's have a bit of sleep.

_John_. He asked us to keep watch.

_James_. He's gone away. He's forgotten all about us.

_Peter_. He can't expect us to keep awake all night.

_John_. We might put up a bit of a prayer.

_James_. You can if you like. I'm too sleepy. Look--Peter's off.


[PETER'S _head has fallen on_ JOHN'S _shoulder_. JAMES _drops his upon
the other. For a moment_ JOHN _sits manfully with head erect, eyes
gazing into the darkness under the hop-bines, then his head too falls on
his breast. There is silence for a while. Then the voice of the_
SHEPHERD _is heard in the distance, raised sharply and suddenly in great
agony_.]


_Shepherd_ [_off_]. Father, if it be possible let this cup pass from me.
Nevertheless not my will but thine be done.


[_There is another silence, more terrible than any music. But the
companions are not afraid. They are asleep. The voice of the_ ANGELS
_comes again like the voice of the moonlight_.]


_Angel Choir_.

℣. My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death
   Tarry ye here and watch with me.
   Even now shall ye see the multitude
   Which shall come about me.
   Ye shall flee, and I go to be offered up for you.

℟. Behold the hour is at hand,
   And the Son of Man is betrayed to sinners.
   Ye shall flee, and I go to be offered up for you.


[_The silence broods for an instant, then is rent again as with a sword.
The voice of the_ SHEPHERD _comes from the darkness_.]


_Shepherd_. Father, if this cup may not pass from me except I drink
it--thy will be done.


[_The_ SHEPHERD _comes out into the moonlight. He looks round for his
companions, then sees them sleeping under the hedge. He stands gazing
down at them, while the invisible_ ANGELS _sing, answering each other
thus_.]


_Angel Choir_.

℣. What! Could ye not watch with me one hour
   Who were ready to die for me?
   Or see ye not Judas, how he sleepeth not,
   But hasteneth to betray me?

℟. Why sleep ye? Watch and pray
   That ye enter not into temptation.
   Or see ye not Judas, how he sleepeth not,
   But hasteneth to betray me?


[_The_ SHEPHERD _stoops as if to wake the three disciples, but suddenly
there is a muffled sound of footsteps and voices beyond the hedge. He
straightens himself and looks swiftly up to the moon. As the sounds draw
nearer the companions begin to wake, stretching themselves, and
yawning_.]


_Peter_. What's that?

_James_. There's some one on the road.

_John_ [_springing to his feet_]. He has come back, our Shepherd, and
found us sleeping.

_Shepherd_. It is enough. The hour is come. [_He stands motionless by
the little knot of his disciples_.]

_Peter_ [_terrified_]. They're after us. They've tracked us down.

James [looking through the hedge]. It's that scum Judas.

_John_. Oh Master, Master, whatsumever shall we do?

_James_. Let's get off quickly.


[_At that moment_ JUDAS _comes creeping through the hedge. He runs to
the_ SHEPHERD _and kisses him shamefacedly_.]


_Judas_. Mäaster, Mäaster!

_Shepherd_. Why have you come, friend?

_Judas_. Mäaster, I want a word with you.

_James_. Don't trust him--he's up to no good. Come, let's get off while
there's time.


[_At that a dozen of the rural constabulary break through the hedge,
carrying torches and lanterns. Their truncheons are drawn and they
advance towards the_ SHEPHERD, _who stands motionless_.]


_Shepherd_. Are you come to take a thief?

_Judas_ [_his embrace changing to a grip_]. Here he is. Hold him fast.


[_For some reason the constabulary do not come any further. They stand
in a little huddle by the hedge_. JUDAS _suddenly drops his arms and
shrinks back among them_.]


_Shepherd_. What have you come for?

_A Voice_. The Shepherd of Lattenden.

_Shepherd_. Here I am.


[_Still nobody moves. The_ SHEPHERD _stands for a calm instant. Then
challenges again_.]


_Shepherd_. What do you want?

_A Voice_. The Shepherd of Lattenden.

_Shepherd_. I've told you who I am. But if you want me, let these go
[_pointing to the three disciples_].


[_Without waiting for the answer, the companions turn suddenly and
disappear into the darkness of the hop-bines_.]

_Shepherd_. Shall I not drink the cup which my Father has given me?


[_The little band of captors now suddenly seems to recover its senses.
It closes round the_ SHEPHERD, _seizes him, and huddles him off through
the torn hedge. The hop-garden is empty. The ship of the moon still
sails the Easter midnight. The voices of the_ ANGELS _creep through the
silence_.]


_Angel Choir_.

℣. I was like a lamb that is innocent:
   I was brought to the slaughter, and I knew it not:
   Mine enemies have taken counsel against me, Saying:
   Come, let us put wood in his bread,
   Let us root him out
   From the land of the living.

℟. All mine enemies have taken counsel
   And have spoken unjustly against me, Saying:
   Come, let us put wood in his bread,
   Let us root him out
   From the Land of the Living.



                               SCENE III

SCENE: _Ante-Room in Rye Town Hall. It is a large room, containing some
interesting Tudor timberwork. The fireplace, in which a goodly fire
burns, is a specially fine specimen of its period. A nail-studded door
opens into the street, and another, on the right of the fireplace, leads
into the main hall. A heavily mullioned window looks out on the dawn of
an April day, and every now and then there is a flurry of rain against
the glass and on the cobbles of the street. Between the showers stars
drift among the blue spaces of a cloud-shredded sky. A lamp hangs from
the ceiling, fighting the growing daylight. The room is full of people_.
PETER _sits by the fire, with a little group of the Mayor's servants,
male and female. The Rye Constabulary in their blue coats and peaked
caps, stand round the walls and sing:_


_Constabulary_ [_singing "The Mayor's Song"_].

Spring is in the morning, Spring is in the town
(Upstairs! Upstairs! Upstairs and down!)
No need for labour and no need for prayer,
Spring has come to Rye town by order of the Mayor.
      The sun is in the sky.
      Sing low, sing high,
      For Pontius Pilate, Mayor of Rye.

Never such an Easter, never such a day--
Ten thousand merry men singing on their way.
Roads black with charabancs as far as you can spy.
The four corners of the world have all come to Rye.
      The sun is in the sky.
      Sing low, sing high,
      For Pontius Pilate, Mayor of Rye.

Sing a song of Sussex welcoming the loads
Of cars and carts and charabancs that cover all the roads.
Good Friday's just the day to have a bit of fun,
Spring time and holiday together have begun.
      The sun is in the sky.
      Sing low, sing high,
      For Pontius Pilate, Mayor of Rye.

Spring is in the morning, Spring is in the town
(White bread! White bread! White bread and brown!)
No need for labour and no need for prayer,
Spring has come to Rye town by order of the Mayor.
      The sun is in the sky,
      Sing low, sing high,
      For Pontius Pilate, Mayor of Rye.


[_As the song ceases_, ARCHDEACON CAIAPHAS _and_ CANON ANNAS _enter from
the main hall_.]


_Caiaphas_. Well, how do you think it's going?

_Annas_. Oh, capitally, capitally--couldn't go better.

_Caiaphas_. I don't feel very sure of Pilate, though. The Shepherd
amuses him, and I think he'd like to let him off.

_Annas_. I don't see how he can in the face of the evidence. After all,
the man's own words, spoken in open court, are plain blasphemy enough.
What was it he said?--"One day you shall see me seated on the Right Hand
of God and coming in the clouds of heaven." Could anyone want more than
that?

_Caiaphas_. No. But Pilate's never been friendly towards the Church, and
I think he sometimes enjoys a little blasphemy. However, as you say, he
can't very well acquit on the evidence. But I hope he won't drag things
out too much. It's already daylight, and soon all the Easter traffic
will begin coming into the town. The road to Battle will be thick, and
the crowds might get troublesome if they met him carrying his cross.

_Annas_ [_clucking his tongue_]. Dear me, it's all very sad, this
profanation of Good Friday. Our congregations get smaller and
smaller--everybody seems to go off on wheels.

_Caiaphas_ [_sighing_]. Yes, it's all very dreadful, very sad. . . . I
don't know what the country's coming to--hullo! What's that?


[_There is a sound of scuffling outside the door. The policeman who
guards the entrance is heard expostulating with some one who wants to
come in_.]


_A Voice_. I doan't care. Let me pass. I want to see the clergymen.

_Annas_. It's Judas! Let him in.


[JUDAS _enters in the whirl of a shower. His face is white and his eyes
are bloodshot. He glares at_ ANNAS _and_ CAIAPHAS.]


_Caiaphas_. My good man! . . .

_Judas_ [_pulling at his trousers pocket_]. There it is. There, täake
your bloody money. [_He throws a handful of gold and silver pieces on
the ground_.]

_Annas_. For shame to use such language here.

_Judas_. Reckon it's the truth I'm speaking. Reckon the money's bloody
since it's the price of blood.

_Annas and Caiaphas_. Sssh!

_Judas_ [_in a frenzy_]. Blood! Blood! I've betrayed the innocent blood!
Oh, whatsumever shall I do?

_Caiaphas_ [_coldly_]. Well, that's really no concern of ours. If you've
any sense you'll pick the money up and go.

_Judas_. I woant touch it.

_Annas_. Come, my good man, don't be so unreasonable. If you throw the
money away you'll be sorry for it later, and what's done can't be
undone.

_Caiaphas_. Besides, you did perfectly right. You've helped rid the
district of a notorious criminal.

_Judas_. I tell you he's innocent--and I've betrayed him. You bribed me
to do it, you whited walls, you bloody sepulchres, you----

_Annas and Caiaphas_. Hush! Hush! This is dreadful. Such shocking
language! Hush! Hush!

_Judas_ [_flinging round desperately_]. Well, reckon I'm shut of you
all. I'll go and hang myself. [_He goes out. The door swings behind him
with a clang_.]

_Caiaphas_. I hope he doesn't mean that. He won't do himself any harm?

_Annas_. Oh, no, not he. They never do when they talk such a lot about
it. Your genuine suicide is a most secretive person.

_Caiaphas_. Do you think he'll come back for the money?

_Annas_ [_beginning to pick it up_]. He won't get it, anyhow.

_Caiaphas_. But, my dear man, we can't use it for church purposes. After
all, what he said was true in a sense. It is the price of blood.

_Annas_. Well, we needn't put it into the Church Fund, but it will come
in extremely useful in other ways. For one thing it would just pay for
that piece of the Old Brickfield we want to add to the cemetery.

_Caiaphas_. Yes, that could scarcely be called a Church purpose, since
all denominations are buried there.

_Annas_. Of course; and the enlargement is most necessary. [_He pockets
the money_.]


[_The door into the Main Hall opens, and loud laughter is heard. The
next moment_ PONTIUS PILATE _comes into the ante-room. He is a short,
elderly man, with purplish complexion and aquiline nose. He wears his
mayoral robes and chain, and enters rubbing his hands and chuckling,
well pleased with himself_.]


_Pilate_. They saw that. That got the "laughter in court" all right.

_Annas_. What was the joke, Mr. Mayor?

_Caiaphas_. Mayn't we hear too?

_Pilate_. Well, he kept on talking to me about the truth--that is when
he would talk at all--so I just said, "What is truth?" Ha! Ha!

_Annas and Caiaphas_. Ha! Ha! [_They laugh dutifully, though they do not
see the joke_.]

_Pilate_. Ha! Ha! That made 'em roar. What is truth? Ha! Ha!

_Annas_. Ha! Ha!

_Caiaphas_. Ha! Ha!

_Pilate_. But this is why I want to see you fellows. Really, I don't
feel happy about condemning him to death.

_Caiaphas_. But you must! You must condemn him to death. There's nothing
else to be done now.

_Pilate_. I've gone into all the evidence most carefully, and I really
can't see that he's as bad as you all make out.

_Annas_. But he said----

_Caiaphas_. But he threatened----

_Annas_. Blasphemy! Stark blasphemy!

_Caiaphas_. And sedition!

_Pilate_. On inquiry, a great deal of it seems to be rumour and
exaggeration. The fellow appears to me an honest fanatic--no worse than
that.

_Annas_. But he says he's a king. He's declared that openly, many times.
If you acquit him----

_Caiaphas_. Yes, if you acquit him it will appear that you're no friend
to the State.

_Pilate_ [_uneasily_]. But he expressly declares that his kingdom is not
of this world.

_Caiaphas_. That only makes him more dangerous! A heavenly king can defy
earthly laws.

_Annas_. You're not exactly in a position to appear too lenient, Pilate.
You remember that affair on the Marsh, and what the Powers that Be had
to say about it.

_Pilate_ [_irritably_]. Yes, yes, yes! But that was----

_Caiaphas_. If you let this fellow loose and he starts a revolution, you
really would find yourself in a tight place.

_Pilate_. Oh, damn you! How you badger and drive a man! I suppose you're
determined to have that poor chap's blood, and I suppose I've got to let
you have what you want, or you'll crab me with the government. Very
well, then. His blood be on your head. I'm guiltless of it.

_Caiaphas_. We'll take the entire responsibility.

_Pilate_. All right then, have it your own way. [_To one of the
Constabulary_.] Officer! Tell them to prepare the Cross.


[_Exit_ OFFICER.]


_Annas_. And you'd better order a troop of soldiers to attend the
execution. There may be riots----

_Pilate_. Oh, I'll see that you have all you need to protect your skins.


[PILATE _goes back into the Main Hall, fuming_. ANNAS _and_ CAIAPHAS
_follow with undisguised satisfaction. As they go a sudden gasp comes
from the little group round the fire_. A MAID-SERVANT _gazes shrewdly
at_ PETER.]


_Maid_. I believe that you're one of them.

_Peter_. One of what?

_Maid_. One of the Shepherd's gang. I'm nearly sure now that I've seen
you with them.

_Peter_. You've seen nothing of the kind, my girl. I've never had
anything to do with that lot.


[_There is a brief silence_. PETER _warms his hands nervously. The girl
looks hard at him, then whispers something to the man next her_.]


_Man_. Look here, I've seen you with him too.

_Peter_ [_really frightened_]. 'A' done do with your idle talk. What a
terrification you maake about all this. I tell you I've never seen the
Shepherd in my life.

_Man_ [_grinning_]. Well, you've got the Marsh speech, anyway.
"Terrification," you come from the Marsh all right. You're the
Shepherd's countryman.

_Peter_. Damn you all! I tell you I've never seen him. You're speaking a
hem pack of lies. I don't know the fellow. I----


[_All heads are turned towards the door leading into the Main Hall. It
has opened during_ PETER'S _outburst and the_ SHEPHERD _stands in the
entrance between armed guards. At the same time the door into the street
has opened noiselessly in the gathering dawn and the Cross is seen
awaiting the_ SHEPHERD, _who gives one long sad look at_ PETER. _A cock
crows_.]



                                SCENE IV

SCENE: _Kitchen of a Farmhouse near Battle. It is long past midnight,
and the large, low-raftered room is lit only by a row of candles set in
antique brass candle sticks upon the mantelshelf, above the dying gleeds
of an old, red fire. The window is heavily curtained, the walls and
corners of the room are dark--the furniture shows only as cumbrous
shadows. In the middle of the room is a long, old-fashioned kitchen
table, round which are huddled shapes, at first almost indistinguishable
in the dim, reddish light, but gradually revealing themselves as the_
SHEPHERD'S _companions. There is also a little group of women--the_
SHEPHERD'S MOTHER, SALOME, JOANNA, MARY MAGDALENE _and another_ MARY.
_The_ SHEPHERD'S MOTHER _sits at the end of the table, leaning against_
JOHN, _who stands at her side with his arm about her. The other women
are making flowers into wreaths and bunches--pale primroses and
daffodils and Lent lilies and jonquils._

[MARY MAGDALENE _stands up_.]


_Mary Magdalene_. The flowers are ready. Let us take them to his grave.

_Joanna_. Now? In the night?

_Mary Magdalene_. They'll lose their freshness here, and we may as well
go while it's dark and no one can see us.

_Salome_. Yes, let's go now.

_James_. What fools you women are! What's the sense of putting flowers
on his grave? He can't see them or smell them any more.

_Mary Magdalene_. It's something we can do for him, at least.

_Other Mary_. It's all we can do.


[MARY MAGDALENE _begins to weep_.]


_Peter_ [_irritably_]. Oh, 'a' done do with your sighing and crying. I
can't bear no more. If that's how you're going on, get out.

_Mary Magdalene_. You watch your tongue, Peter. It's not for you to
speak against anyone doing aught for your Shepherd, whom you denied.

_Peter_. Pert one! [_Then suddenly changing_.] Aye, but you speak true.
I denied him. I denied that I ever knew him. I'm not worthy to be among
you.

_James_. Nor are none of us, if it comes to that. We all bolted in the
hop-garden. No one stood by him but these women here, so it ill becomes
us to grumble at them. They went with him to Battle, they saw him
crucified, when we were all hiding our heads and lying low. The women
have done better than the men in the past three days, my masters, so let
them go their way to-night in peace.

_Peter and the Others_. Aye, go your way in peace.
And God bless you!


[_The_ WOMEN _go out carrying their pale Spring flowers_.]


_James_ [_looking at his brother_]. But one of us was at the Cross.

_Andrew_. Who? Which?

_James_. Our young man. He followed all the way from Rye to Battle, and
was there till the end, with the Shepherd's mother.

_Peter_. Did he speak to you, John? Did he say anything?

_John_. Aye, he told me to take care of her, so I brought her home. [_He
draws the_ MOTHER'S _head against his shoulder_.]

_Peter._ But did he say aught about me?

_John_. No, he said naught about you.

_James_. Tell us what happened at his dying, John. You've never told us.

_John_ [_hiding his face in his arm_]. I don't know as I can.

_James_. Come, speak up, brother. It's only kind to let us hear.

_John_. I dunno as there's much to tell. It was outside the Abbey--there
on the Green the three crosses stood.

_Peter_. Three crosses?

_John_. Aye, there was two poachers crucified with him. Didn't you know?
One of 'em was took in Sowden Wood.

_Philip_. Which way did you come to Battle?

_John_. By the Udimore road, and then across the Marsh at Brede Bridge,
and up by Crowham and then westward at Benskins--across the Sedlescombe
road, and turn off to Battle by Kent Street, and up Marley Lane.

_Jude_. Did many folk go with you?

_John_. Aye, an unaccountable lot of folk. The place was crowded, and
policeman stood at the Mount turning the traffic off as it came into the
town.

_Andrew_. Was there much traffic?

_John_. A fine lot by the sound. We could hear 'em all singing in the
charabancs as they went by behind the houses. They didn't know naught of
what was happening.

_Bartholomew_. Poor souls, reckon we mustn't blame them. They didn't
know what they were doing.

_John_. That was what he said.

_Matthew_. The Shepherd? Did he speak?

_John_. Yes, he spoke. When they were nailing him to the Cross, and all
the folks was shouting on the Green, he said "Father, forgive them, for
they know not what they do." And he spoke to one of them poachers that
was crucified along of him, though I didn't rightly catch what he said,
and he spoke to his mother and to me.

_Peter_. Was that all?

_John_. All that I can tell you. [_He shudders_.]

_Peter_. You must tell us. Did he speak of me?

_John_. I've told you--not a word.

_James_. What is it that you won't tell us?

_John_. Oh, 'a' done do wud your questions. I'll tell you some day, but
I can't tell you now.

_Simon_. Did you see him die?

_John_. Yes, I saw him die, and it was the best sight. He just bowed his
head and died, quiet as a child, and the soldier who watched at the
Cross said, "I reckon that was a good man."

_Peter_ [_passionately_]. There was never a better man than our
Shepherd.


[_A silence falls sharply and suddenly, all sit with bowed heads. Then
the_ ANGELS' _song of sorrow comes stealing among the shadows of the
room as it stole among the shadows of the hop-garden. It is as if the
Spring night had crept in weeping_.]


_Angels' Song_.

℣. Our Shepherd, the fountain of living waters, is gone,
     At whose going the sun was darkened.
   Lo, the righteous perisheth,
     And no man layeth it to heart.
   And merciful men are taken away,
     None considering that the righteous is taken away from evil.
   And he shall enter into peace.

℟. As a sheep before her shearers is dumb,
     So he opened not his mouth.
   And he shall enter into peace.


_Peter_. There it was. That music again. Did you hear it?

_James_. I heard it.

_John_. It's as if--as if more was happening than we know of here.

_Andrew_. Sometimes I feel the land knows.

_Bartholomew_. I feel the stars know.

_Thomas_. It's only us who don't know.

_Peter_. What is there to know, save that he's dead and buried, and
we've all forsaken and denied him?

_John_. Maybe he'll come back, as he said.

_Peter_. As he said! When did he say it?

_John_. Oh, I dunno. But I've heard him talk more than once of being
crucified and rising again.

_Thomas_. He'll never rise again. You saw him buried, John?

_John_. I saw him buried. Mr. Joseph, the rich Jew gentleman that lives
at Little Park, he offered him a grave in his own garden. They were in a
hurry to bury him, seeing as Easter was close at hand, and I don't know
what we could have done if Mr. Joseph hadn't offered the grave. So our
Shepherd lies in his garden, under a thorn tree.


[_All sit with bowed heads. The voices of the_ ANGELS _are heard
again_.]


_Angel Choir_.

℣. I have delivered my beloved
     Into the hand of the wicked,
   And mine heritage is become unto me as a lion in the wood.
   They have made my pleasant place a wilderness,
     And being desolate it mourneth after me.

℟. The merciless men have risen up against me
   And with terrible eyes piercing me through with a cruel blow,
     They gave me vinegar to drink.
   They made my pleasant place a wilderness,
     And being desolate it mourneth after me.


_James_. Gone! Gone! He is gone, our Shepherd, like the light.

_John_. He was like the sun. The earth is cold without him. I reckon we
shall have no more flowers this Spring.

_Philip_. He was a fountain of many waters.

_Thomas_. Can you remember how we were sometimes afraid?

_Bartholomew_. And durst not ask him anymore questions.

_John_. Sometimes I felt he came from God, and would go back to God.

_Andrew_. And yet he came, a man.

_John_. Aye, but with a deep heart--a secret heart.

_Peter_. Oh, 'a' done do with all your nonsense, We none of us know who
our Shepherd was, nor whence he came, nor whither he has gone. All we
know is that he is dead, and lies buried under a thorn-tree.


[_The angel voices are heard_.]

_Angel Choir_.

℣. I am counted as one of them
     That go down into the pit.
   I have been even as a man that hath no strength,
     Free among the dead.

℟. Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit
     In a place of darkness,
     And in the deep.
   I have been even as a man that hath no strength,
     Free among the dead.


_James_. We can't stay around here anymore. The place is haunted. I'm
going home.

_Peter_. There's no sense in our setting around mourning together. We'd
best be getting back to our jobs. My ship's ready to sail at Rye.

_James_. And so is our father's ship. We'll go together.

_Matthew_. Will they take me back at the customs?

_Simon_. We'd all be better going back to the old ways. We tried the new
for a while. . . . Many of us had hoped much from them. . . . I, for
one, thought the Shepherd would build our Church anew. But it was not to
be. Our earthly hope is ended.

_John_. Oh, doan't go speaking of the end. There's no end till the end
of the Sabbath.

_Peter_. What's the lad mean?

_John_. I've words in my head--words that I've been given--"In the end
of the Sabbath, as it began to dawn towards the first day of the week. .
. ."

_James_. That's middling poor words, and no use to us. Come, don't let's
go talking of vain things. Let's all be going back to our work, to the
things that matter.

_All_. Aye, to the things that matter.


[_They rise to go_.]


_John_. Oh, not like this--not without one prayer--or singing of one
song together, as we used with our Shepherd.


[_The others exchange glances, they seem uncertain, but finally decide
to humour him_.]


_Peter_. Very well then. Let us sing a song. Which shall it be?

_Voices_. The Song of Habbakuk----
The Song of Hezekias----
The Song of Zacharias----
The Song of Zacharias!

_Peter_. Zacharias has it. We'll sing it together. Then put out the
lights and go.


[_They stand round the table singing together to the tune, "O, God of
Jacob, by whose hand_."]


_The Song of Zacharias_.

         O blessed be the Lord our God,
           And prais'd his holy Name,
         For when in darkness all men trod,
           To visit us he came.

         Redemption to his folk he brought
           As prophets said of old,
         And set a candle in our house
           In candlestick of gold.

         That we his folk should saved be
           From all that hate us so,
         And before him in holiness
           And righteousness should go.

         And thou, O child, shalt now be called
           The Son of Love Divine,
         For thou shalt go before his face,
           And make his paths to shine.

         So that the vale is light at last,
           The shadows fade and cease,
         And our tired feet come thankfully
           Into the way of peace.


[_While they sing young_ ANDREW _is busy putting out the candles, taking
each one down in turn from the mantelpiece and blowing out the flame.
When the song ceases the room is almost dark, and the young man's hand
is upon the last light. Then the_ SHEPHERDS MOTHER _speaks for the first
time_.]


_The Mother_. Leave one candle burning.

_Peter_. Aye, leave us something to light us out.

_The Mother_. It is not to light us out. I will set it in the window, to
guide him here. He will be coming soon.

_Peter_. What does that mean?

_James_. He'll never come.

_John_. Mother!

_The Mother_. Give me the light.


[_She takes the light, and pulls back the curtains, the room is flooded
with a sudden gleam, as the dawn pours in, washing out the weak
candle-flame in a pure ocean of light_.]


_John_ [_excitedly_]. In the end of the Sabbath, as it began to dawn
towards the first day. . . .



                                SCENE V

SCENE: _Garden of Little Park Manor near Battle. It is dark, though pale
slats of light are stretched across the sky behind the trees, and the
Easter moon is sinking behind the woods of Ashburnham in the west. Under
the trees, all is in shadow--even the pale April flowers that grow in
rings round their trunks do not gleam. There is as it were a movement in
the darkness, a form detaches itself from it, then comes swiftly
forward. For a moment the_ SHEPHERD _stands motionless in the shadow and
stillness of the April dawn. He speaks in a low voice, with eyes
uplifted to the light_.


_Shepherd_.

I am arisen, and am still with thee, Alleluya,
Thou hast laid thy hand upon me, Alleluya.
Such knowledge is too wonderful and excellent for me,
Alleluya, Alleluya, Alleluya!


[_He moves quickly on again, and disappears among the shadows. For some
minutes longer the silence lasts, but the light grows steadily. It
spreads in a white fan over the sky, and the shapes of the trees are
seen, and the delicate outline of their Spring boughs. The light comes
down into the garden, and shows the daffodils and Lent lilies that grow
in bloomy rings in the long grass at the foot of the trees, and a green
lawn globed with dew, beyond which, on a grassy terrace backed with
laurels and flowering shrubs, an altar tomb stands, broken and empty. It
is one of those stone tombs seen in churches and chantry chapels and in
old-fashioned churchyards. But the top and sides are thrown down. Only
the two ends stand. By the time the light reaches it a rosy flush has
crept into the whiteness. The warm ray touches the dipping moon just as
she sinks below the rim of the woods. A bird lifts a sleepy voice among
the trees. Another bird sends out a few thin sweet notes into the
kindling light. A hare runs out on the lawn and nibbles a blade of
grass. Scents begin to stir, as a little breeze shakes the flowers. Two_
ANGELS _approach from different ends of the terrace and greet each other
by the empty tomb_.]


_1st Angel_. The peace of the Lord be always with you.

_2nd Angel_. And with your spirit.


[_They kiss each other. The voices of unseen Angels are heard singing_.]


_Angel Choir_.

℣. Alleluya, Alleluya, Alleluya!
   This is the day which the Lord hath made:
   We will rejoice and be glad in it.
   Alleluya!

℟. O give thanks unto the Lord for he is gracious
   And his mercy endureth for ever.
   Alleluya, Alleluya, Alleluya!


[_Meanwhile the two_ ANGELS _seat themselves one at each end of the
tomb_.]


_1st Angel_. It is good to hear the Alleluyas again. How sad the voices
of heaven and earth have been during the last three days!

_2nd Angel_. The earth nearly died of her sorrow. For three days she lay
swooning before God.

_1st Angel_. She was like a creature in a dream. Her Spring withered
upon her.

_2nd Angel_. But she is waking now. She stirs, she trembles. She too
comes out of the grave.

_1st Angel_. The voice of the Accuser is silenced. No more can he keep
her apart from heaven. She is now a bride, whose marriage feast is
ready, and whose bridegroom comes forth.

_2nd Angel_. O let the earth bless the Lord! Yea, let her praise him and
magnify him for ever.

_1st Angel_. They are coming--the women--I see them.

_2nd Angel_. --I see them too--the women--last at the cross and first at
the grave.


[MARY MAGDALENE _and the other_ MARY, JOANNA _and_ SALOME _come treading
slowly across the lawn, their arms sagging with flowers. Their eyes are
downcast and their footsteps trail in the dew-drenched grass_.]


_Other Mary_. Oh, I am tired. These flowers feel heavy--and after all,
what good can they do?

_Joanna_ [_prosaically_]. We shall put them on his grave.

_Other Mary_. And what good will _that_ do?

_Mary Magdalene_. If only we could lay them on his heart. I long to
touch his hand again, even though cold and dead, to look into his face.
. . .

_Salome_. You can never do that.

_Mary Magdalene_. Maybe I can. They buried him hastily--maybe the grave
is still open. . . . Oh! [_She suddenly catches sight of the shattered
and empty tomb_]. Oh! They have broken open his grave. They have taken
him away. Oh, whatsumever shall we do?


[_The other women look up and see what she sees. They are filled with
consternation_.]


_Women_. The tomb is broken.
         They've stolen his body.
         Oh, the heartless brutes!
         What shall we tell the others?


_1st Angel_. Tell them that it is not good to seek the living among the
dead.

_Other Mary_. What was that? I heard a voice.

_Mary Magdalene_. There are many voices--our own.

_Other Mary_. But this was a different voice. Didn't any of you hear it?


[_They shake their heads_.]


_Joanna_. I didn't hear it, but I thought I saw something.

_Others_. What?

_Joanna_. [_trembling_]. An angel. Yes--it's come again. I see it--over
there--look! look! [_She points. At first the others cannot see, but
suddenly_ SALOME _cries out_.]


_Salome_. Yes, I see it too! I see an angel sitting at the head of the
tomb.

_Mary Magdalene_. I see nothing but the grave--and that's empty.

_Other Mary_. I see two angels, one at each end--now, they're gone.

_Salome_. I can see only one. Oh! his face shines.


[_They are all very much afraid_.]

_1st Angel_. Have no fear. All is well. He is not here--he is risen. Do
you not remember what he used to say to you when he was with you on the
Marsh, that the Shepherd would be betrayed into the hands of wicked men,
and be crucified, and would rise again the third day?

_Joanna_. Now I seem to remember things he used to say. Don't you
remember?--down at Lattenden--how he used sometimes to say that after he
was dead he would rise again?

_Other Mary_. Yes, I seem to remember that now. I remember how queer we
all thought it at the time, but maybe it's true.

_Salome_. That he's risen again.

_Mary Magdalene_. I don't believe it.

_Other Mary_. But those were his words. I remember them now.

_2nd Angel_. Go, tell his companions and Peter that he is risen, and has
already gone before you to the Marsh. He is waiting for you to join him
there.

_Salome_. He is risen as he said he would. I feel sure of it now. Let us
go and tell the others.

_Joanna_. Yes, and especially poor Peter, who is so sad because he was
afraid at the trial, and told the Mayor's folk he didn't know the
Shepherd.

_Other Mary_. Come, let's hurry back. Then we can all go together to
Lattenden. I have a feeling that if we went there we'd find him waiting
for us.

_Mary Magdalene_. [_with a sob_]. I don't believe it.


[_The women go off, still carrying their flowers_. MARY MAGDALENE
_follows them sorrowfully, lagging behind. The day is now nearly bright,
sunshine fills the sky and sprinkles the tree-tops with showery gold,
though the trees still fling long shadows upon the lawn, where the dew
lies unmelted. The birds are now singing gladly, and the whole garden
steams with scent as the flowers open_.]


_1st Angel_. Angel, I am in love with this world which we are visiting.
My feet will be sad when they tread it no longer.

_2nd Angel_. They are all very beautiful and wonderful and sweet, these
patterns of the heavenly things. I had no idea before I came that images
could be so lovely.

_1st Angel_. Have you wandered far? Have you seen much of the earth?

_2nd Angel_. I have seen the sea and the mountains, and I have seen
numberless islands in the sea--islands with red cliffs and islands with
grey walls, and islands that were lakes of blue water set in rings of
coral. I have seen islands where the foot of man has never trod, and yet
where nevertheless Summer comes and the sun shines and the air is full
of sweetness, and the big lovely flowers open without thought of human
eye and the birds sing though no human ear listens to their song. The
island spices smoke in the sun like incense for the glory of God alone.

_1st Angel_. I have never left these shores, but I have seen many
wonderful and lovely things. I have seen the multitudes of the redeemed
walking and singing together for joy. I was down by the sea at Hastings
in the evening yesterday, and I saw the throngs of redeemed men and
women and little children walking to and fro together by the shore. I
saw them in a mass of drifting colours, purples and blues and greens and
pinks, in the gracious dusk, and I heard their voices as the voices of
the sea, and I knew the interpretation of the song that they sang,
though the words were but slight words, woven out of their web of
earthly thought, for it is the New Song that all creation sings to-day:
"Thou art worthy, O Lamb, for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to
God by thy blood out of every kindred and tongue and people and nation,
and hast made us unto our God kings and priests, and we shall reign on
the earth."

_2nd Angel_. Alleluya!

_1st Angel_. Alleluya!


[_There is a sound of thudding footsteps and the breaking of boughs_.]


_2nd Angel_. Some one is coming quickly--through the copse.

_1st Angel_. Can it be Peter?

_2nd Angel_. It is Peter and John. They must have met the women on their
way to the farm.


[PETER _and_ JOHN _enter quickly and silently. They run across the lawn
at a steady pace, without a glance astray for the beauty of the garden,
as men who have only one thought and one goal. The goal is the empty
tomb. They run towards it, over the dew, steadily, side by side. As they
climb the bank_ JOHN, _in his lean-built youth, draws ahead. He runs up
to the tomb, then shrinks back, suddenly overwhelmed and afraid_. PETER
_has no such recoils; he looks into the tomb, and sees the grave-clothes
lying. Then_ JOHN _overcomes his timidity and looks in too. For a moment
they stand gazing upon each other, still dumb, then the same thought
seems to strike them both, and they turn from the grave, running swiftly
and silently as before, but with awe rather than eagerness upon their
faces. As they disappear into the copse the first_ ANGEL _speaks with a
sigh_.]


_1st Angel_. Here is a thing to which I cannot grow accustomed upon
earth, and that is that so many should look upon me without seeing me.

_2nd Angel_. True. At first I felt that all whom I saw must see me, but
now I realize that this is not so.

_1st Angel_. Their eyes are holden.

_2nd Angel_. They are fat.

_1st Angel_. When the kingdom of God shall come men shall see as they
are seen and know as they are known. But till then we can only touch
their thought, the secret places of their minds which they scarcely know
themselves.

_2nd Angel_. Here comes Mary Magdalene back again. She looks sad. I hope
that she will see us.

_1st Angel_. She will neither see us nor hear us. She is more external
than the other woman, since her senses have more power over her soul.


[MARY MAGDALENE _comes in, trailing sadly, withered flowers upon her
arm, and tears upon her face_.]


_2nd Angel_ [_full of compassion_]. My dear, why do you cry like this?

_1st Angel_. Whom are you seeking here?


[MARY _sinks down by the tomb_.]


_Mary_ [_weeping bitterly_]. Oh, where is my Shepherd? They have taken
away my Shepherd. I brought him flowers, to lay upon his heart, but he
is gone. They have taken him away, and I do not know where they have
hidden him. Oh, where is the Shepherd of Lattenden?

[_The_ SHEPHERD _stands by_ MARY. _He was scarcely seen to come, but he
is there. The_ ANGELS _stiffen upon the tomb--they are almost like
marble angels as they gaze. But_ MARY _does not see him, for her head is
bowed in mourning upon her knees_.]


_Shepherd_. Dear lady, why are you crying so? Whom are you looking for
here?


[MARY _lifts her head a little at the voice. She sees his feet and
supposes him to be the gardener_.]


_Mary_. Sir, if you have taken his body away, tell me where you have put
him, and I will take him and bury him in a spot which I alone know of.

_Shepherd_. Mary!


[_She jerks up her head. A gasping sigh comes from her_.]


_Mary_. Shepherd! [_She tries to seize him by the feet. He draws back
from her_.]

_Shepherd_. Do not touch me. This body can no longer be a link between
us till I have raised it to my Father's throne. But go to my brothers,
my dear friends of the Marsh, and tell them that I ascend to my Father
and your Father, and to my God and your God.


[_He is suddenly gone_. MARY _looks round, her eyes bright with joy,
then rises joyfully to her feet_.]

_Mary_. The Shepherd is risen--the good Shepherd is risen. Oh praise God
for this day!


[_She gazes round her in ecstasy, and from the sides of the garden, from
among the trees, spotted over with the shadows of leaves, dappled with
sunlight as they move, come the_ ANGELS _of the heavenly choir,
invisible no longer, but shining like gold and silver birds in the glory
of the morning. They gather round_ MARY _as she stands before the empty
tomb, and she and they sing together the glad Sequence of Easter Day_.]


_Angels_.

Christians, to the Shepherd victim
Sing your joyful song to-day.
The Shepherd has redeemed his sheep,
The Shepherd undefiled
Has made the sick earth whole.
She is reconciled
To her Father, her Bridegroom and her son.
Death and life in war stupendous
Battled with their hosts tremendous,
And the king of life who died
Now lives for ever.

Mary, Mary!
Say what you saw in the morning,
What you saw on your way in the morning.

_Mary_.

I saw the Shepherd's broken prison,
I saw his power new risen.
I saw the angels bright
And the grave-clothes white.
My Shepherd of many waters, lives again,
And at this home among the waters
He waits to meet his own.

_Angels_.

Our Shepherd from death is risen
As the whole glad earth knows,
And shows,
Rising with him from death to life,
From Winter into Summer.
Oh Shepherd-Victor, pray for all thy sheep,
Thy flock in heaven, thy flock on earth
And thy flock in the hidden fold
Which lies beneath the earth.
Oh King and Conqueror, grant us mercy.
Amen. Alleluya!



                                SCENE VI

SCENE: _Lattenden in the Marsh. It is a fair meadow, standing high with
buttercups. The hawthorn hedge is already flowering, and burns in a
green and white flame against the blue waste of the sky. The reeds stand
high in the dykes, upright in the windless air. There is a shimmer of
heat over all, a fertile, joyous heat_.

_The_ SHEPHERD'S _companions enter the meadow--first the chosen
three_--PETER, JAMES _and_ JOHN, _then the others in a loose knot. They
are followed by the little group of women_--_the_ MARYS, SALOME, JOANNA
_and the_ SHEPHERD'S MOTHER, _walking with arms linked and faces smiling
in the sun_.


_Peter_. Here we all are, and where is the Shepherd?

_John_. He will come.

_Peter_. I don't fear that. We have his word that he will meet us here,
and if there's one thing that we men know now it is that his word is
true.

_John_. It has all been true--and wonderful.

_James_. Yes, indeed, young one. When I think of our sorrows and our
dreads, and then of what is now . . .

_John_. Now and ever shall be.

_Peter_. World without end. Amen.

_James_. I could sing for joy.

_Peter and John_. And I----
And I.

_Other Companions_. And all of us.

_Mary Magdalene_. When I remember how I saw him in the garden and
thought he was the gardener . . .

_Peter_. When I remember how I met him at the farm--down by the orchard
wall . . .

_James_. And I met him too, at the bottom of Marley Lane.

_John_. Then there were those two men who came with their tale. Do you
remember?--how he had walked with them from Rye to Udimore and then had
supper with them at the inn.

_Andrew_. And there was the time when he suddenly appeared and said
"Peace be with you all," and we were so scared we couldn't answer.

_Bartholomew_. That was on the first Sunday.

_Philip_. No, it was last Sunday.

_Bartholomew_. He came twice, because of Thomas. Don't you remember?

_Thomas_. Yes, he showed me his wounds. I wouldn't believe unless I saw
those wounds. I said to myself, "If it's truly our Shepherd, he must be
wounded. No one could have been hurt as he was, and not show it
afterwards."

_Peter_. Well, you saw the wounds.

_James_. And put your finger in them.

_Peter_. And he said "be not faithless but believing."

_Thomas_. Yes, I know. Maybe I shouldn't ought to have doubted, but
reckon my doubts gave good proof to you men. We'll always know our
Shepherd now by his wounds.

_Mary Magdalene_. Oh, his white, burning body! It is like a candle
alight.

_John_. Hark! I hear music.


[_There is the sound of music in the distance, drums and piping. It
comes nearer, playing a jigging folk-tune. A crowd of country folk enter
with the_ SHEPHERD _in their midst. He walks erect and triumphant, his
head crowned with the garlands his people have made out of the young
primroses. He carries his crook, which is tufted with violets, primroses
and anemones--young anemones are pinned on his smock. Round him dance
men, women and children, crowned with spring flowers--buttercups,
cuckooflowers, wind-flowers, bluebells, stitchwort, speedwell,
primroses, violets, hawthorn, from the fields and hedges--daffodils,
jonquils, Lent lilies, tulips, crocuses and hyacinths from the cottage
gardens. The drums and pipes play merry, lilting folk-music, as the
people dance round the_ SHEPHERD. _There is an echo in the music of the
Furry Dance, of the Whistling Song, of Roughty Toughty, of the Hobby
Horse Measure and the Morris Dance--every merry tune played or sung by
simple merry folk seems to find its echo in the music that jigs round
the_ SHEPHERD _as his people dance about him_.]


_Peter and the other Companions_. Oh, Shepherd! Shepherd! Shepherd of
Lattenden!


[_The music ceases_.]


_Peter_. Well met, friends and neighbours all. The earth is full of
goodness. Let's rejoice together, and be thankful.

_All_. Alleluya! Alleluya!

  Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.
 As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without
end. Amen.

_Peter_ [_exalted_]. Yes, let's sing psalms together, world without end,
and dance our merry dances together, world without end. For the Shepherd
of the Marsh has risen, and walks no more in the grave. Alleluya!
Hurrah!


[_The_ SHEPHERD _looks long at_ PETER.]

_Shepherd_. Peter, do you love your Shepherd?

_Peter_ [_surprised_]. Of course I do.

_Shepherd_. Feed my lambs.

_Peter_. I am a fisherman by trade, and now I shall have to be thinking
of getting back to sea; in all these late times I have neglected my ship
a little. The spring tides are here, and I shall put to sea again.

_Shepherd_. Peter, do you love your Shepherd?

_Peter_. Shepherd, surely know that.

_Shepherd_. Feed my sheep.

_Peter_. I am not a landfarer. I belong to the sea. My father has his
boat at the Rother's mouth, and my brother and I have our boat.

_Shepherd_. Peter, do you love your Shepherd?

_Peter_. Why have you asked me that three times? You know everything, so
you must know that I love you.

_Shepherd_. Feed my sheep.


[PETER _looks vexed and bewildered, so the_ SHEPHERD _continues_.]


_Shepherd_. Till now, Peter, you have been young and your way has been
your own way, the way of the sea. But when you are no longer young your
way shall be no longer your own way, but my way, even the way I trod to
save my sheep.


[_As his voice ceases the sound of singing is heard, and the_ ANGEL
CHOIR _enters, walking sweetly and slowly through the meadow and singing
in the sun_.]


_Angels_.

The earth is full of the goodness of the Lord,
Alleluya!
By the word of the Lord were the heavens made.
Alleluya! Alleluya!
The Good Shepherd is risen,
Who laid down his life for the sheep.
Alleluya!


[_An Angel prays_.]


_Angel_. Almighty God, Who hast given us Thine only beloved Son, to be
to us both a sacrifice for sin and also an example of godly life: give
us grace that we may always most thankfully receive that His inestimable
benefit, and also daily endeavour ourselves to follow the blessed steps
of His most holy life.

_Peter_. A prayer-meeting! A prayer-meeting! Such as we've so often had
together. Good folk all, this is good indeed. I pray you listen while I
say the words the Lord has given me. [_He comes forward and stands
beside the_ SHEPHERD, _in front of the crowd of country folk with their
flowers, behind which again stand the_ ANGELS, _against a background of
hawthorn hedge and sky. He speaks slowly and carefully as one reciting
message_.] Dearly beloved: this is thankworthy, if a man for conscience'
sake endure grief, suffering wrongfully. For even hereunto were ye
called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that
we should follow in his steps. Who did no sin, neither was guile found
in his mouth: who when he was reviled, reviled not again: when he
suffered he threatened not, but committed himself to him that judgeth
righteously: who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree:
that we being dead to sin should live unto righteousness: by whose
stripes ye were healed. For ye were as sheep going astray, but are now
returned unto the Shepherd and Bishop of your souls.

_All_. Alleluya, Alleluya!
       I am the Good Shepherd;
       I know my sheep, and am known of mine, Alleluya.

_Shepherd_ [_standing in the midst and singing in the tone of the
Gospel_]. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd giveth his life for
the sheep. But he that is an hireling, and not the shepherd, whose own
the sheep are not, seeth the wolf coming and leaveth the sheep and
fleeth; and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep. The
hireling fleeth because he is an hireling, and careth not for the sheep.
I am the good shepherd and know my sheep, and am known of mine. As the
Father knoweth me, even so know I the Father--and I lay down my life for
the sheep. And other sheep have I, which are not of this fold: them also
I must bring, and they shall hear my voice, and there shall be one fold,
and one Shepherd.

_All_. Thanks be to God.


[_Then the music breaks out again, pipe and drum and voices, folk-tunes
and alleluyas all in one, angels and mortals singing together, finally
all joining in_ "SHEPHERD'S HEY _and_ ALLELUYA" _to the tune of "Filii et
Filiæ_."


_All_ [_singing_].
Alleluya, alleluya, alleluya!
Come, friends and neighbours, let us sing
On this most joyful day of Spring
Our Shepherd's triumph and home-coming.
       Alleluya!

At Easter dawn before the light
Had stolen the meadows from the night,
Our women saw a valiant sight.
       Alleluya!

They saw two white angelic men
Who said, "Why seek your Shepherd when
He has gone home to Lattenden?
       Alleluya!

"The marshes of the world beneath,
The rivers of the land of death
Drowned not your Shepherd's living breath.
       Alleluya!

"The marshes of the world above,
The rivers of the land of love
Wait for your Shepherd's last high move,
       Alleluya!"

And now he walks the world of men,
So let us all be merry, then,
And dance and sing through Lattenden,
       Alleluya!

For when at last he leaves our earth,
It still shall be with sounds of mirth
And songs of springtime and new birth,
       Alleluya!

He goes a pasture to prepare
In heavenly fields, by waters rare,
And we, his flock, shall find him there,
       Alleluya!

So, friends and neighbours, all be gay,
And with the angels on this day
Dance joyfully the Shepherd's Hey,
       Alleluya!
Alleluya, alleluya, alleluya! Amen.


                                THE END



[End of _Saints in Sussex_ by Sheila Kaye-Smith]
