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_ ACT III - SCENE II.
PONTEACH'S Cabin.PONTEACH, an Indian CONJURER, and French PRIEST.
PONTEACH.
Well! have you found the Secret of my Dream,
By all your Cries, and Howls, and Sweats, and Prayers?
Or is the Meaning still conceal'd from Man,
And only known to Genii and the Gods?
CONJURER.
Two Hours I've lain within the sultry Stove,
While Floods of Sweat ran trickling from my Skin;
With Howls and Cries and all the Force of Sound
Have I invok'd your Genius and my own,
Smote on my Breast, and beat against my Head,
To move an Answer, and the Secret learn.
But all in vain, no Answer can I have,
Till I first learn what secret Purposes
And great Designs are brooding in your Mind.
PRIEST.
At our pure Virgin's Shrine I've bowed my Knees,
And there in fervent Prayer pour'd out my Soul;
Call'd on Saint Peter, call'd on all the Saints
That know the Secrets both of Heaven and Earth,
And can reveal what Gods themselves can do:
I've us'd the Arts of our most holy Mother,
Which I receiv'd when I forsook the World,
And gave myself to Holiness and Heaven;
But can't obtain the Secret of your Dream,
Till I first know the Secrets of your Heart,
Or what you hope or wish to be effected.
'Tis on these Terms we learn the Will of God,
What Good or Ill awaits on Kings or Kingdoms;
And without this, St. Peter's Self can't tell,
But at a Dream like yours would be confounded.
PONTEACH.
You're well agreed--Our Gods are much alike--
And I suspect both Rogues--What! won't they tell!
Should they betray my Scheme, the whole is blown.
And yet I fain would know. I'll charge them first.
Look here; if I disclose a Secret to you,
Tell it to none but silent honest Gods;
Death to you both, if you reveal to Men.
BOTH.
We will, we will, the Gods alone shall know.
PONTEACH.
Know then that I have fix'd on speedy War,
To drive these new Encroachers from my Country.
For this I meant t' engage our several Tribes,
And when our Foes are driven to their Bounds,
That we may stand and hold our Rights secure,
Unite our Strength under one common Head,
Whom all these Petty Kings must own their Lord,
Not even Hendrick's self shall be excused.
This is my Purpose. Learn if it shall prosper,
Or will it end in Infamy and Shame?
CONJURER.
[Smiting on his breast, groaning, and muttering in his cloak or
blanket, falls down upon the ground, beats his head against it, and
pretends to listen: then rises, and says with a rumbling hideous voice:]
Success and Victory shall attend your Arms;
You are the mighty Elk that none can conquer,
And all the Tribes shall own you for their King.
Thus, say the Genii, does your Dream intend.
PRIEST.
[Looking up to Heaven in a praying posture for a small space, says:]
Had I but known you was resolv'd on War,
And War against those Heretics the English,
I need not to have ask'd a God or Saint
To signify the Import of your Dream.
Your great Design shall have a prosperous End,
'Tis by the Gods approv'd, and must succeed.
Angels and Saints are dancing now in Heaven:
Your Enemies are theirs, are hated by them,
And they'll protect and help you as their Champion,
[Aside.]
That fights their Battles, and defends their Cause.
Our great St. Peter is himself a Warrior;
He drew his Sword against such Infidels,
And now, like him, you'll gain immortal Honour,
And Gods in Heaven and Saints on Earth will praise you.
PONTEACH.
The Gods and Genii do as you have said.
I'll to the Chiefs, and hasten them to Arms.
[Exeunt PONTEACH and CONJURER.]
PRIEST
[solus].
This, by St. Peter, goes as I would have it.
The Conjurer agreed with me to pump him,
Or else deny to solve his dubious Vision:
But, that we've so agreed in our Responses,
Is all mere Providence, and rul'd by Heaven,
To give us further Credit with this Indian.
Now he is fix'd--will wage immediate War--
This will be joyful News in France and Rome,
That Ponteach is in Arms, and won't allow
The English to possess their new-gain'd Empire:
That he has slain their Troops, destroy'd their Forts,
Expell'd them from the Lakes to their old Limits:
That he prefers the French, and will assist
To repossess them of this fertile Land.
By all the Saints, of this I'll make a Merit,
Declare myself to be the wise Projector;
This may advance me towards St. Peter's Chair,
And these blind Infidels by Accident
May have a Hand in making me a Pope--
But stop--Won't this defeat my other Purpose?
To gain the Mohawk Princess to my Wishes?
No--by the holy Virgin, I'll surprise her,
And have one hearty Revel in her Charms.
But now I'll hasten to this Indian Council;
I may do something there that's apropos.
[Exit.] _
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