Bedlam Page #4

"The...

"blessing...

"Blessing of...

"Of our age..."

Come on. I spent all morning

beating it into your head.

You see, milord...

Reason is overcome with emotion

when it must speak of you.

Prod him on, Sims.

Go on. A few more of those golden words

I taught you, lad.

Somewhere I heard that the human body

must breathe through its pores.

If you shut those pores...

"A man...

"set...

"like a jewel..."

Another word, good, gentle Reason.

"This...

"prince of men.

"This...

"paragon...

"Lord...

"Lord...

"Mortimer."

Duck him in the river.

A bit of canvas, a handful of coarse sand

would get the gilt off.

Master Sims, isn't that

harsh treatment for a sick lad?

They have to get the gilt off,

if he is to be well again.

So you know that.

Know what, Mistress Bowen?

You know that anyone painted over

as thick as that poor lad will die.

If I understand you properly...

this boy is dying...

This boy is dead because

his pores are clogged by the gilt.

Then, sweet Mistress Bowen...

since you are such a stickler

for the correct definition...

you will grant me the legal fact

that this boy died by his own exhalations.

You might say he poisoned himself.

Milord, have we not had enough of this?

Enough of that boring, dull man

and his cruelty.

But we're all laughing, Nell.

- I am not laughing, milord.

- He shall make you laugh.

Spare me that.

- But, Nell.

- A boy died tonight.

A boy who had no mind

to guide his thoughts or deeds.

Maybe there'll be some concern about that

among the Whigs.

Certainly none among the Tories.

You'll find they're laughing, too.

Liberty. That is a great word

you Whigs found somewhere.

But, just the same...

you'll end either with the pox

or on the gallows.

That, milord, depends on

whether I embrace your sweetheart...

or your politics.

Here is Alfrieda, Queen of the Artichokes.

She will sing for you.

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen

Here's to the widow of fifty

Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen

And here's to the housewife who's thrifty

Master Hannay.

This is a strange place to see thee,

Mistress Bowen.

A little dull, perhaps.

But a good enough place

to ask the questions I want to ask.

So far I have found thee more ready

with answers than with questions.

Don't worry,

my questions are pert enough.

First, do you think me

a woman of kind heart?

- I have told thee so.

- Why?

I saw thy face at Bedlam.

It had kindness and compassion.

I have never seen that in my mirror.

But let's say I grant the fact.

Let's say I saw things

that moved me to pity.

What then, Master Quaker?

Perhaps God sent thee here

that thee might find guidance.

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