SERGEANT (loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness). Oh, of course, of course. No call for the lady to distress herself. Still — (in a lower voice, intended for Richard alone) your last chance, sir.
They look at one another significantly for a moment. Than Richard exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith.
RICHARD (very distinctly). My love. (She looks at him, pitiably pale, and tries to answer, but cannot — tries also to come to him, but cannot trust herself to stand without the support of the table.) This gallant gentleman is good enough to allow us a moment of leavetaking. (The sergeant retires delicately and joins his men near the door.) He is trying to spare you the truth; but you had better know it. Are you listening to me? (She signifies assent.) Do you understand that I am going to my death? (She signifies that she understands.) Remember, you must find our friend who was with us just now. Do you understand? (She signifies yes.) See that you get him safely out of harm’s way. Don’t for your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it out, tell him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and they would not spare me. And tell him that I am steadfast in my religion as he is in his, and that he may depend on me to the death. (He turns to go, and meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. He considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to Judith with something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says) And now, my dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you love me like a wife unless you give one kiss before I go.
He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the table and almost falls into them.
JUDITH (the words choking her). I ought to — it’s murder —
RICHARD. No: only a kiss (softly to her) for his sake.
JUDITH. I can’t. You must —
RICHARD (folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion for her distress). My poor girl!
Judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; kisses him; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the ground as if the kiss had killed her.
RICHARD (going quickly to the sergeant). Now, Sergeant: quick, before she comes to. The handcuffs. (He puts out his hands.)
SERGEANT (pocketing them). Never mind, sir: I’ll trust you. You’re a game one. You ought to a bin a soldier, sir. Between them two, please. (The soldiers place themselves one before Richard and one behind him. The sergeant opens the door.)
RICHARD (taking a last look round him). Goodbye, wife: goodbye, home. Muffle the drums, and quick march!
The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They file out quickly.
When Anderson returns from Mrs. Dudgeon’s he is astonished to find the room apparently empty and almost in darkness except for the glow from the fire; for one of the candles has burnt out, and the other is at its last flicker.
ANDERSON. Why, what on earth — ? (Calling) Judith, Judith! (He listens: there is no answer.) Hm! (He goes to the cupboard; takes a candle from the drawer; lights it at the flicker of the expiring one on the table; and looks wonderingly at the untasted meal by its light. Then he sticks it in the candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much puzzled. This action causes him to look at the floor for the first time; and there he sees Judith lying motionless with her eyes closed. He runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head.) Judith.
JUDITH (waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of exhaustion after suffering). Yes. Did you call? What’s the matter?
ANDERSON. I’ve just come in and found you lying here with the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. What has happened?
JUDITH (still astray). I don’t know. Have I been asleep? I suppose — (she stops blankly) I don’t know.
ANDERSON (groaning). Heaven forgive me, I left you alone with that scoundrel. (Judith remembers. With an agonized cry, she clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he rises with her. He clasps her tenderly in his arms.) My poor pet!
JUDITH (frantically clinging to him). What shall I do? Oh my God, what shall I do?
ANDERSON. Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my fault. Come: you’re safe now; and you’re not hurt, are you? (He takes his arms from her to see whether she can stand.) There: that’s right, that’s right. If only you are not hurt, nothing else matters.
JUDITH. No, no, no: I’m not hurt.
ANDERSON. Thank Heaven for that! Come now: (leading her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit down and rest: you can tell me about it tomorrow. Or, (misunderstanding her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it worries you. There, there! (Cheerfully.) I’ll make you some fresh tea: that will set you up again. (He goes to the table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl.)
JUDITH (in a strained tone). Tony.
ANDERSON. Yes, dear?
JUDITH. Do you think we are only in a dream now?
ANDERSON (glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of anxiety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh tea into the pot). Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well dream a cup of tea when you’re about it.
JUDITH. Oh, stop, stop. You don’t know — (Distracted she buries her face in her knotted hands.)
ANDERSON (breaking down and coming to her). My dear, what is it? I can’t bear it any longer: you must tell me. It was all my fault: I was mad to trust him.
JUDITH. No: don’t say that. You mustn’t say that. He — oh no, no: I can’t. Tony: don’t speak to me. Take my hands — both my hands. (He takes them, wondering.) Make me think of you, not of him. There’s danger, frightful danger; but it is your danger; and I can’t keep thinking of it: I can’t, I can’t: my mind goes back to his danger. He must be saved — no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (She springs up as if to do something or go somewhere, exclaiming) Oh, Heaven help me!
ANDERSON (keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute composure). Calmly, calmly, my pet. You’re quite distracted.
JUDITH. I may well be. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. (Tearing her hands away.) I must save him. (Anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the door. It is opened in her face by Essie, who hurries in, full of anxiety. The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith that it brings her to her senses. Her tone is sharp and angry as she demands) What do you want?
ESSIE. I was to come to you.
ANDERSON. Who told you to?
ESSIE (staring at him, as if his presence astonished her). Are you here?
JUDITH. Of course. Don’t be foolish, child.
ANDERSON. Gently, dearest: you’ll frighten her. (Going between them.) Come here, Essie. (She comes to him.) Who sent you?
ESSIE. Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to come here at once and do whatever Mrs. Anderson told me.
ANDERSON (enlightened). A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! They have arrested Richard. (Judith makes a gesture of despair.)
ESSIE. No. I asked the soldier. Dick’s safe. But the soldier said you had been taken —
ANDERSON. I! (Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an explanation.)
JUDITH (coaxingly) All right, dear: I understand. (To Essie.) Thank you, Essie, for coming; but I don’t need you now. You may go home.
ESSIE (suspicious) Are you sure Dick has not been touched? Perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the minister. (Anxiously.) Mrs. Anderson: do you think it can have been that?
ANDERSON. Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She will learn it from the first neighbor she meets in the street. (Judith turns away and covers her eyes with her hands.)
ESSIE (wailing). But what will they do to him? Oh, what will they do to him? Will they hang