ENDICOTT. 
Ungrateful son!  O God! thou layest upon me
A burden heavier than I can bear! 
Surely the power of Satan must be great
Upon the earth, if even the elect
Are thus deceived and fall away from grace!

MERRY. 
Worshipful sir!  I meant no harm—­

ENDICOTT. 
                           ’T is well. 
You’ve done your duty, though you’ve done it roughly,
And every word you’ve uttered since you came
Has stabbed me to the heart!

MERRY. 
                         I do beseech
Your Worship’s pardon!

ENDICOTT. 
             He whom I have nurtured
And brought up in the reverence of the Lord! 
The child of all my hopes and my affections! 
He upon whom I leaned as a sure staff
For my old age!  It is God’s chastisement
For leaning upon any arm but His!

MERRY. 
Your Worship!—­

ENDICOTT. 
    And this comes from holding parley
With the delusions and deceits of Satan. 
At once, forever, must they be crushed out,
Or all the land will reek with heresy! 
Pray, have you any children?

MERRY. 
                         No, not any.

ENDICOTT. 
Thank God for that.  He has delivered you
From a great care.  Enough; my private griefs
Too long have kept me from the public service.

Exit MERRY, ENDICOTT seats himself at the table and arranges his papers.

The hour has come; and I am eager now
To sit in judgment on these Heretics.

A knock.

Come in.  Who is it? (Not looking up).

JOHN ENDICOTT. 
                    It is I.

ENDICOTT (restraining himself). 
                            Sit down!

JOHN ENDICOTT (sitting down). 
I come to intercede for these poor people
Who are in prison, and await their trial.

ENDICOTT. 
It is of them I wished to speak with you. 
I have been angry with you, but ’t is passed. 
For when I hear your footsteps come or go,
See in your features your dead mother’s face,
And in your voice detect some tone of hers,
All anger vanishes, and I remember
The days that are no more, and come no more,
When as a child you sat upon my knee,
And prattled of your playthings, and the games
You played among the pear trees in the orchard!

JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Oh, let the memory of my noble mother
Plead with you to be mild and merciful! 
For mercy more becomes a Magistrate
Than the vindictive wrath which men call justice!

ENDICOTT. 
The sin of heresy is a deadly sin. 
’T is like the falling of the snow, whose crystals
The traveller plays with, thoughtless of his danger,
Until he sees the air so full of light
That it is dark; and blindly staggering onward,
Lost and bewildered, he sits down to rest;
There falls a pleasant drowsiness upon him,
And what he thinks is sleep, alas! is death.