Opens the Mandamus and hands it to BELLINGHAM; and, while he is reading, ENDICOTT walks up and down the room.

Here, read it for yourself; you see his words
Are pleasant words—­considerate—­not reproachful—­
Nothing could be more gentle—­or more royal;
But then the meaning underneath the words,
Mark that.  He says all people known as Quakers
Among us, now condemned to suffer death
Or any corporal punishment whatever,
Who are imprisoned, or may be obnoxious
To the like condemnation, shall be sent
Forthwith to England, to be dealt with there
In such wise as shall be agreeable
Unto the English law and their demerits. 
Is it not so?

BELLINGHAM (returning the paper). 
             Ay, so the paper says.

ENDICOTT. 
It means we shall no longer rule the Province;
It means farewell to law and liberty,
Authority, respect for Magistrates,
The peace and welfare of the Commonwealth. 
If all the knaves upon this continent
Can make appeal to England, and so thwart
The ends of truth and justice by delay,
Our power is gone forever.  We are nothing
But ciphers, valueless save when we follow
Some unit; and our unit is the King! 
’T is he that gives us value.

BELLINGHAM. 
                             I confess
Such seems to be the meaning of this paper,
But being the King’s Mandamus, signed and sealed,
We must obey, or we are in rebellion.

ENDICOTT. 
I tell you, Richard Bellingham,—­I tell you,
That this is the beginning of a struggle
Of which no mortal can foresee the end. 
I shall not live to fight the battle for you,
I am a man disgraced in every way;
This order takes from me my self-respect
And the respect of others.  ’T is my doom,
Yes, my death-warrant, but must be obeyed! 
Take it, and see that it is executed
So far as this, that all be set at large;
But see that none of them be sent to England
To bear false witness, and to spread reports
That might be prejudicial to ourselves.
                     [Exit BELLINGHAM.

There’s a dull pain keeps knocking at my heart,
Dolefully saying, “Set thy house in order,
For thou shalt surely die, and shalt not live! 
For me the shadow on the dial-plate
Goeth not back, but on into the dark!
                                  [Exit.

SCENE IV. —­ The street.  A crowd, reading a placard on the door of the Meeting-house.  NICHOLAS UPSALL among them.  Enter John Norton.

NORTON. 
What is this gathering here?

UPSALL. 
                   One William Brand,
An old man like ourselves, and weak in body,
Has been so cruelly tortured in his prison,
The people are excited, and they threaten
To tear the prison down.

NORTON. 
                 What has been done?

UPSALL. 
He has been put in irons, with his neck
And heels tied close together, and so left
From five in the morning until nine at night.