the_devils_disciple.pdf

The Devil's Disciple
George Bernard Shaw
Published: 1897
Categorie(s): Fiction, Drama
Source: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/3638

About Shaw:
George Bernard Shaw (26 July 1856 – 2 November 1950)
was an Irish playwright. Although Shaw's first profitable
writing was music and literary criticism, his talent was for
drama, and he authored more than 60 plays. Nearly all of his
writings deal sternly with prevailing social problems, but
have a vein of comedy to make their stark themes more
palatable. Shaw examined education, marriage, religion,
government, health care, and class privilege and found them
all defective. He was most angered by the exploitation of the
working class, and most of his writings censure that abuse.
An ardent socialist, Shaw wrote many brochures and
speeches for the Fabian Society. He became an accomplished
orator in the furtherance of its causes, which included gaining
equal political rights for men and women, alleviating abuses
of the working class, rescinding private ownership of
productive land, and promoting healthful lifestyles. Shaw
married Charlotte Payne-Townshend, a fellow Fabian, whom
he survived. They settled in Ayot St. Lawrence in a house
now called Shaw's Corner. Shaw died there, aged 94, from
chronic problems exacerbated by injuries he incurred by
falling. He is the only person to have been awarded both the
Nobel Prize for Literature (1925) and an Oscar (1938). These
were for his contributions to literature and for his work on
the film Pygmalion, respectively. Shaw wanted to refuse his
Nobel Prize outright because he had no desire for public
honors, but accepted it at his wife's behest: she considered it
a tribute to Ireland. He did reject the monetary award,
requesting it be used to finance translation of Swedish books
to English. From:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Bernard_Shaw
Copyright: This work is available for countries where
copyright is Life+50 or in the USA (published before 1923).
Note: This book is brought to you by eBook Junkie

http://www.ebookjunkie.com
Strictly for personal use, do not use this file for commercial
purposes.

Act I
At the most wretched hour between a black night and a
wintry morning in the year 1777, Mrs. Dudgeon, of New
Hampshire, is sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling
room of her farm house on the outskirts of the town of
Websterbridge. She is not a prepossessing woman. No
woman looks her best after sitting up all night; and Mrs.
Dudgeon's face, even at its best, is grimly trenched by the
channels into which the barren forms and observances of a
dead Puritanism can pen a bitter temper and a fierce pride.
She is an elderly matron who has worked hard and got
nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her sordid
home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and
respectability among her neighbors, to whom drink and
debauchery are still so much more tempting than religion and
rectitude, that they conceive goodness simply as self-denial.
This conception is easily extended to others—denial, and
finally generalized as covering anything disagreeable. So Mrs.
Dudgeon, being exceedingly disagreeable, is held to be
exceedingly good. Short of flat felony, she enjoys complete
license except for amiable weaknesses of any sort, and is
consequently, without knowing it, the most licentious woman
in the parish on the strength of never having broken the
seventh commandment or missed a Sunday at the
Presbyterian church.
The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused of the
breaking off of the American colonies from England, more by
their own weight than their own will, boiled up to shooting
point, the shooting being idealized to the English mind as
suppression of rebellion and maintenance of British dominion,
and to the American as defence of liberty, resistance to
tyranny, and selfsacrifice on the altar of the Rights of Man.
Into the merits of these idealizations it is not here necessary

to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they have
convinced both Americans and English that the most high
minded course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one
another as possible, and that military operations to that end
are in full swing, morally supported by confident requests
from the clergy of both sides for the blessing of God on their
arms.
Under such circumstances many other women besides this
disagreeable Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all
night waiting for news. Like her, too, they fall asleep towards
morning at the risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen
fire. Mrs. Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over her head, and
her feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the
domestic altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler,
and its hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for
roasting. The plain kitchen table is opposite the fire, at her
elbow, with a candle on it in a tin sconce. Her chair, like all
the others in the room, is uncushioned and unpainted; but as
it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally moulded
to the sitter's curves, it is comparatively a chair of state. The
room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace,
near the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the
opposite end of the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and
washhouse; and the house door, with its latch, heavy lock,
and clumsy wooden bar, in the front wall, between the
window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom door.
Between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to
the deductive observer that the men of the house are all
away, as there are no hats or coats on them. On the other
side of the window the clock hangs on a nail, with its white
wooden dial, black iron weights, and brass pendulum.
Between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard, locked,
stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery.
On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the
corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands

against the wall. An inspection of its stridulous surface shows
that Mrs. Dudgeon is not alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen
has fallen asleep on it. She is a wild, timid looking creature
with black hair and tanned skin. Her frock, a scanty garment,
is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by no means
scrupulously clean. It hangs on her with a freedom which,
taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great
stock of underclothing.
Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud
enough to wake the sleepers. Then knocking, which
disturbs Mrs. Dudgeon a little. Finally the latch is tried,
whereupon she springs up at once.
MRS. DUDGEON (threateningly). Well, why don't you open
the door? (She sees that the girl is asleep and immediately
raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation.) Well, dear, dear me!
Now this is— (shaking her) wake up, wake up: do you hear?
THE GIRL (sitting up). What is it?
MRS. DUDGEON. Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself,
you unfeeling sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your
father hardly cold in his grave.
THE GIRL (half asleep still). I didn't mean to. I dropped off
—
MRS. DUDGEON (cutting her short). Oh yes, you've plenty
of excuses, I daresay. Dropped off! (Fiercely, as the knocking
recommences.) Why don't you get up and let your uncle in?
after me waiting up all night for him! (She pushes her rudely
off the sofa.) There: I'll open the door: much good you are to
wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit.
The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a
log on. Mrs. Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it,
letting into the stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and

a great deal of the chill of the dawn, also her second son
Christy, a fattish, stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man of
about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl and grey overcoat. He
hurries, shivering, to the fire, leaving Mrs. Dudgeon to
shut the door.
CHRISTY (at the fire). F—f—f! but it is cold. (Seeing the
girl, and staring lumpishly at her.) Why, who are you?
THE GIRL (shyly). Essie.
MRS. DUDGEON. Oh you may well ask. (To Essie.) Go to
your room, child, and lie down since you haven't feeling
enough to keep you awake. Your history isn't fit for your own
ears to hear.
ESSIE. I—
MRS. DUDGEON (peremptorily). Don't answer me, Miss;
but show your obedience by doing what I tell you. (Essie,
almost in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa.)
And don't forget your prayers. (Essie goes out.) She'd have
gone to bed last night just as if nothing had happened if I'd
let her.
CHRISTY (phlegmatically). Well, she can't be expected to
feel Uncle Peter's death like one of the family.
MRS. DUDGEON. What are you talking about, child? Isn't
she his daughter—the punishment of his wickedness and
shame? (She assaults her chair by sitting down.)
CHRISTY (staring). Uncle Peter's daughter!
MRS. DUDGEON. Why else should she be here? D'ye think
I've not had enough trouble and care put upon me bringing
up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing
brother, without having your uncle's bastards—
CHRISTY (interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at
the door by which Essie went out). Sh! She may hear you.

MRS. DUDGEON (raising her voice). Let her hear me.
People who fear God don't fear to give the devil's work its
right name. (Christy, soullessly indifferent to the strife of
Good and Evil, stares at the fire, warming himself.) Well, how
long are you going to stare there like a stuck pig? What news
have you for me?
CHRISTY (taking off his hat and shawl and going to the
rack to hang them up). The minister is to break the news to
you. He'll be here presently.
MRS. DUDGEON. Break what news?
CHRISTY (standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang
his hat up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg,
and speaking with callous placidity, considering the nature of
the announcement). Father's dead too.
MRS. DUDGEON (stupent). Your father!
CHRISTY (sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming
himself again, attending much more to the fire than to his
mother). Well, it's not my fault. When we got to Nevinstown
we found him ill in bed. He didn't know us at first. The
minister sat up with him and sent me away. He died in the
night.
MRS. DUDGEON (bursting into dry angry tears). Well, I do
think this is hard on me—very hard on me. His brother, that
was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the public
gallows as a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at
home where his duty was, with his own family, goes after
him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. After
sending this girl to me to take care of, too! (She plucks her
shawl vexedly over her ears.) It's sinful, so it is; downright
sinful.
CHRISTY (with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause).
I think it's going to be a fine morning, after all.

MRS. DUDGEON (railing at him). A fine morning! And your
father newly dead! Where's your feelings, child?
CHRISTY (obstinately). Well, I didn't mean any harm. I
suppose a man may make a remark about the weather even
if his father's dead.
MRS. DUDGEON (bitterly). A nice comfort my children are
to me! One son a fool, and the other a lost sinner that's left
his home to live with smugglers and gypsies and villains, the
scum of the earth!
Someone knocks.
CHRISTY (without moving). That's the minister.
MRS. DUDGEON (sharply). Well, aren't you going to let Mr.
Anderson in?
Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries
her face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be
overcome with grief. Christy opens the door, and admits
the minister, Anthony Anderson, a shrewd, genial, ready
Presbyterian divine of about 50, with something of the
authority of his profession in his bearing. But it is an
altogether secular authority, sweetened by a conciliatory,
sensible manner not at all suggestive of a quite
thoroughgoing other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy
man, too, with a thick, sanguine neck; and his keen,
cheerful mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. No
doubt an excellent parson, but still a man capable of
making the most of this world, and perhaps a little
apologetically conscious of getting on better with it than
a sound Presbyterian ought.
ANDERSON (to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs.
Dudgeon whilst he takes off his cloak). Have you told her?
CHRISTY. She made me. (He shuts the door; yawns; and

loafs across to the sofa where he sits down and presently
drops off to sleep.)
Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then
he hangs his cloak and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon
dries her eyes and looks up at him.
ANDERSON. Sister: the Lord has laid his hand very heavily
upon you.
MRS. DUDGEON (with intensely recalcitrant resignation).
It's His will, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think it
hard. What call had Timothy to go to Springtown, and remind
everybody that he belonged to a man that was being
hanged?—and (spitefully) that deserved it, if ever a man did.
ANDERSON (gently). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON. Timothy never acknowledged him as his
brother after we were married: he had too much respect for
me to insult me with such a brother. Would such a selfish
wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy
hanged, do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I
must bear my cross as best I may: least said is soonest
mended.
ANDERSON (very grave, coming down to the fire to stand
with his back to it). Your eldest son was present at the
execution, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON (disagreeably surprised). Richard?
ANDERSON (nodding). Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON (vindictively). Let it be a warning to him.
He may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless
— (she suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, with
evident dread) Did Timothy see him?
ANDERSON. Yes.

MRS. DUDGEON (holding her breath). Well?
ANDERSON. He only saw him in the crowd: they did not
speak. (Mrs. Dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up
breath and sits at her ease again.) Your husband was greatly
touched and impressed by his brother's awful death. (Mrs.
Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to demand with some
indignation) Well, wasn't it only natural, Mrs. Dudgeon? He
softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He sent
for him to come to see him.
MRS. DUDGEON (her alarm renewed). Sent for Richard!
ANDERSON. Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent his
father a message; but I'm sorry to say it was a wicked
message—an awful message.
MRS. DUDGEON. What was it?
ANDERSON. That he would stand by his wicked uncle, and
stand against his good parents, in this world and the next.
MRS. DUDGEON (implacably). He will be punished for it. He
will be punished for it—in both worlds.
ANDERSON. That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon.
MRS. DUDGEON. Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We are
told that the wicked shall be punished. Why should we do our
duty and keep God's law if there is to be no difference made
between us and those who follow their own likings and
dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their Maker's word?
ANDERSON. Well, Richard's earthly father has been
merciful and his heavenly judge is the father of us all.
MRS. DUDGEON (forgetting herself). Richard's earthly
father was a softheaded—
ANDERSON (shocked). Oh!
MRS. DUDGEON (with a touch of shame). Well, I am
Richard's mother. If I am against him who has any right to

be for him? (Trying to conciliate him.) Won't you sit down,
Mr. Anderson? I should have asked you before; but I'm so
troubled.
ANDERSON. Thank you— (He takes a chair from beside the
fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the
fire. When he is seated he adds, in the tone of a man who
knows that he is opening a difficult subject.) Has Christy told
you about the new will?
MRS. DUDGEON (all her fears returning). The new will! Did
Timothy—? (She breaks off, gasping, unable to complete the
question.)
ANDERSON. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind.
MRS. DUDGEON (white with intense rage). And you let him
rob me?
ANDERSON. I had no power to prevent him giving what
was his to his own son.
MRS. DUDGEON. He had nothing of his own. His money
was the money I brought him as my marriage portion. It was
for me to deal with my own money and my own son. He dare
not have done it if I had been with him; and well he knew it.
That was why he stole away like a thief to take advantage of
the law to rob me by making a new will behind my back. The
more shame on you, Mr. Anderson,—you, a minister of the
gospel—to act as his accomplice in such a crime.
ANDERSON (rising). I will take no offence at what you say
in the first bitterness of your grief.
MRS. DUDGEON (contemptuously). Grief!
ANDERSON. Well, of your disappointment, if you can find it
in your heart to think that the better word.
MRS. DUDGEON. My heart! My heart! And since when,
pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy

guides for us?
ANDERSON (rather guiltily). I—er—
MRS. DUDGEON (vehemently). Don't lie, Mr. Anderson. We
are told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked. My heart belonged, not to Timothy,
but to that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended
his days with a rope round his neck—aye, to Peter Dudgeon.
You know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you
succeeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe
latchet, told it you when he gave over our souls into your
charge. He warned me and strengthened me against my
heart, and made me marry a Godfearing man—as he
thought. What else but that discipline has made me the
woman I am? And you, you who followed your heart in your
marriage, you talk to me of what I find in my heart. Go home
to your pretty wife, man; and leave me to my prayers. (She
turns from him and leans with her elbows on the table,
brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice of
him.)
ANDERSON (willing enough to escape). The Lord forbid that
I should come between you and the source of all comfort!
(He goes to the rack for his coat and hat.)
MRS. DUDGEON (without looking at him). The Lord will
know what to forbid and what to allow without your help.
ANDERSON. And whom to forgive, I hope—Eli Hawkins and
myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against His law.
(He fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go.) Just one word
—on necessary business, Mrs. Dudgeon. There is the reading
of the will to be gone through; and Richard has a right to be
present. He is in the town; but he has the grace to say that
he does not want to force himself in here.
MRS. DUDGEON. He shall come here. Does he expect us to
leave his father's house for his convenience? Let them all

come, and come quickly, and go quickly. They shall not make
the will an excuse to shirk half their day's work. I shall be
ready, never fear.
ANDERSON (coming back a step or two). Mrs. Dudgeon: I
used to have some little influence with you. When did I lose
it?
MRS. DUDGEON (still without turning to him). When you
married for love. Now you're answered.
ANDERSON. Yes: I am answered. (He goes out, musing.)
MRS. DUDGEON (to herself, thinking of her husband).
Thief! Thief!! (She shakes herself angrily out of the chair;
throws back the shawl from her head; and sets to work to
prepare the room for the reading of the will, beginning by
replacing Anderson's chair against the wall, and pushing back
her own to the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving,
wrathful way) Christy. (No answer: he is fast asleep.)
Christy. (She shakes him roughly.) Get up out of that; and
be ashamed of yourself—sleeping, and your father dead!
(She returns to the table; puts the candle on the
mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a red table
cloth which she spreads.)
CHRISTY (rising reluctantly). Well, do you suppose we are
never going to sleep until we are out of mourning?
MRS. DUDGEON. I want none of your sulks. Here: help me
to set this table. (They place the table in the middle of the
room, with Christy's end towards the fireplace and Mrs.
Dudgeon's towards the sofa. Christy drops the table as soon
as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make
the final adjustments of its position.) We shall have the
minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read
the will before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake
that girl; and then light the stove in the shed: you can't have
your breakfast here. And mind you wash yourself, and make

yourself fit to receive the company. (She punctuates these
orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and producing
a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there
untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and
some glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green
ware plates, on one of which she puts a barmbrack with a
knife beside it. On the other she shakes some biscuits out of
a tin, putting back one or two, and counting the rest.) Now
mind: there are ten biscuits there: let there be ten there
when I come back after dressing myself. And keep your
fingers off the raisins in that cake. And tell Essie the same. I
suppose I can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds
without breaking the glass? (She replaces the tin in the
cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key carefully.)
CHRISTY (lingering at the fire). You'd better put the
inkstand instead, for the lawyer.
MRS. DUDGEON. That's no answer to make to me, sir. Go
and do as you're told. (Christy turns sullenly to obey.) Stop:
take down that shutter before you go, and let the daylight in:
you can't expect me to do all the heavy work of the house
with a great heavy lout like you idling about.
Christy takes the window bar out of its damps, and puts
it aside; then opens the shutter, showing the grey
morning. Mrs. Dudgeon takes the sconce from the
mantelshelf; blows out the candle; extinguishes the snuff
by pinching it with her fingers, first licking them for the
purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf.
CHRISTY (looking through the window). Here's the
minister's wife.
MRS. DUDGEON (displeased). What! Is she coming here?
CHRISTY. Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON. What does she want troubling me at this

hour, before I'm properly dressed to receive people?
CHRISTY. You'd better ask her.
MRS. DUDGEON (threateningly). You'd better keep a civil
tongue in your head. (He goes sulkily towards the door. She
comes after him, plying him with instructions.) Tell that girl
to come to me as soon as she's had her breakfast. And tell
her to make herself fit to be seen before the people. (Christy
goes out and slams the door in her face.) Nice manners,
that! (Someone knocks at the house door: she turns and
cries inhospitably.) Come in. (Judith Anderson, the minister's
wife, comes in. Judith is more than twenty years younger
than her husband, though she will never be as young as he in
vitality. She is pretty and proper and ladylike, and has been
admired and petted into an opinion of herself sufficiently
favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her
instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in
her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by
dreams. Even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a
child's vanity. Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic
observer who knows how rough a place the world is. One
feels, on the whole, that Anderson might have chosen worse,
and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen
better.) Oh, it's you, is it, Mrs. Anderson?
JUDITH (very politely—almost patronizingly). Yes. Can I do
anything for you, Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the place
ready before they come to read the will?
MRS. DUDGEON (stiffly). Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my
house is always ready for anyone to come into.
MRS. ANDERSON (with complacent amiability). Yes, indeed
it is. Perhaps you had rather I did not intrude on you just
now.
MRS. DUDGEON. Oh, one more or less will make no
difference this morning, Mrs. Anderson. Now that you're

here, you'd better stay. If you wouldn't mind shutting the
door! (Judith smiles, implying "How stupid of me" and shuts
it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty and
becoming.) That's better. I must go and tidy myself a bit. I
suppose you don't mind stopping here to receive anyone that
comes until I'm ready.
JUDITH (graciously giving her leave). Oh yes, certainly.
Leave them to me, Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. (She
hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack.)
MRS. DUDGEON (half sneering). I thought that would be
more in your way than getting the house ready. (Essie comes
back.) Oh, here you are! (Severely) Come here: let me see
you. (Essie timidly goes to her. Mrs. Dudgeon takes her
roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect the results
of her attempt to clean and tidy herself—results which show
little practice and less conviction.) Mm! That's what you call
doing your hair properly, I suppose. It's easy to see what you
are, and how you were brought up. (She throws her arms
away, and goes on, peremptorily.) Now you listen to me and
do as you're told. You sit down there in the corner by the
fire; and when the company comes don't dare to speak until
you're spoken to. (Essie creeps away to the fireplace.) Your
father's people had better see you and know you're there:
they're as much bound to keep you from starvation as I am.
At any rate they might help. But let me have no chattering
and making free with them, as if you were their equal. Do
you hear?
ESSIE. Yes.
MRS. DUDGEON. Well, then go and do as you're told.
(Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender
furthest from the door.) Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson:
you know who she is and what she is. If she gives you
any trouble, just tell me; and I'll settle accounts with her.

(Mrs. Dudgeon goes into the bedroom, shutting the door
sharply behind her as if even it had to be made to do its
duty with a ruthless hand.)
JUDITH (patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and
wine on the table more becomingly). You must not mind if
your aunt is strict with you. She is a very good woman, and
desires your good too.
ESSIE (in listless misery). Yes.
JUDITH (annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled
and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of
the remark). You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie.
ESSIE. No.
JUDITH. That's a good girl! (She places a couple of chairs
at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant
sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs.
Dudgeon.) Do you know any of your father's relatives?
ESSIE. No. They wouldn't have anything to do with him:
they were too religious. Father used to talk about Dick
Dudgeon; but I never saw him.
JUDITH (ostentatiously shocked). Dick Dudgeon! Essie: do
you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and to
make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct?
ESSIE (very half-heartedly). Yes.
JUDITH. Then you must never mention the name of Richard
Dudgeon—never even think about him. He is a bad man.
ESSIE. What has he done?
JUDITH. You must not ask questions about him, Essie. You
are too young to know what it is to be a bad man. But he is a
smuggler; and he lives with gypsies; and he has no love for
his mother and his family; and he wrestles and plays games
on Sunday instead of going to church. Never let him into

your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep
yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such
men.
ESSIE. Yes.
JUDITH (again displeased). I am afraid you say Yes and No
without thinking very deeply.
ESSIE. Yes. At least I mean—
JUDITH (severely). What do you mean?
ESSIE (almost crying). Only—my father was a smuggler;
and— (Someone knocks.)
JUDITH. They are beginning to come. Now remember your
aunt's directions, Essie; and be a good girl. (Christy comes
back with the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, and
an inkstand, which he places on the table.) Good morning,
Mr. Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please: the people
have come.
CHRISTY. Good morning. (He opens the house door.)
The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and
Anderson, who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at
home. He is accompanied by Lawyer Hawkins, a brisk,
middleaged man in brown riding gaiters and yellow
breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. He and
Anderson are allowed precedence as representing the
learned professions. After them comes the family,
headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large,
shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at
table. His clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious
wife the wife, of a prosperous man. The junior uncle,
Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry little terrier of a man, with an
immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both free from the
cares of the William household.

Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the
chair nearest the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand
there. He puts his hat on the floor beside him, and
produces the will. Uncle William comes to the fire and
stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving Mrs.
William derelict near the door. Uncle Titus, who is the
lady's man of the family, rescues her by giving her his
disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, where he
sits down warmly between his own lady and his brother's.
Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word with
Judith.
JUDITH. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to wait.
(She taps at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer from
within, she opens it and passes through.)
ANDERSON (taking his place at the table at the opposite
end to Hawkins). Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a
moment. Are we all here?
CHRISTY (at the house door, which he has just shut). All
except Dick.
The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate
jars on the moral sense of the family. Uncle William
shakes his head slowly and repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches
her breath convulsively through her nose. Her husband
speaks.
UNCLE TITUS. Well, I hope he will have the grace not to
come. I hope so.
The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who
goes to the window and posts himself there, looking out.
Hawkins smiles secretively as if he knew something that
would change their tune if they knew it. Anderson is
uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially

funereal ones, is not in his nature. Judith appears at the
bedroom door.
JUDITH (with gentle impressiveness). Friends, Mrs.
Dudgeon. (She takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and
places it for Mrs. Dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in
black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, except
Essie. Mrs. Titus and Mrs. William produce equally clean
handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment.)
UNCLE WILLIAM. Would it comfort you, sister, if we were to
offer up a prayer?
UNCLE TITUS. Or sing a hymn?
ANDERSON (rather hastily). I have been with our sister this
morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing.
ALL (except Essie). Amen.
They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs.
Dudgeon's chair.
JUDITH (to Essie). Essie: did you say Amen?
ESSIE (scaredly). No.
JUDITH. Then say it, like a good girl.
ESSIE. Amen.
UNCLE WILLIAM (encouragingly). That's right: that's right.
We know who you are; but we are willing to be kind to you if
you are a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal before
the Throne.
This republican sentiment does not please the women,
who are convinced that the Throne is precisely the place
where their superiority, often questioned in this world,
will be recognized and rewarded.

CHRISTY (at the window). Here's Dick.
Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a
gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up.
Christy grins and gapes expectantly at the door. The rest
are petrified with the intensity of their sense of Virtue
menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting Vice.
The reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his
alleged merits by the morning sunlight. He is certainly
the best looking member of the family; but his
expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner defiant
and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only his
forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary
steadfastness, and his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic.
RICHARD (on the threshold, taking off his hat). Ladies and
gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. (With
this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to Christy with a
suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket
keeper, and comes into the middle of the room, where he
turns and deliberately surveys the company.) How happy you
all look! how glad to see me! (He turns towards Mrs.
Dudgeon's chair; and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog
tooth as he meets her look of undisguised hatred.) Well,
mother: keeping up appearances as usual? that's right, that's
right. (Judith pointedly moves away from his neighborhood to
the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as
if to save it from contamination. Uncle Titus promptly marks
his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing
a chair for her to sit down upon.) What! Uncle William! I
haven't seen you since you gave up drinking. (Poor Uncle
William, shamed, would protest; but Richard claps him
heartily on his shoulder, adding) you have given it up,
haven't you? (releasing him with a playful push) of course
you have: quite right too; you overdid it. (He turns away
from Uncle William and makes for the sofa.) And now, where

is that upright horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus: come
forth. (He comes upon him holding the chair as Judith sits
down.) As usual, looking after the ladies.
UNCLE TITUS (indignantly). Be ashamed of yourself, sir—
RICHARD (interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of
him). I am: I am; but I am proud of my uncle—proud of all
my relatives (again surveying them) who could look at them
and not be proud and joyful? (Uncle Titus, overborne,
resumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to the table.) Ah,
Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them.
Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the
mark. Come! (with a spring he seats himself on the table and
takes up the decanter) clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the
sake of old times.
ANDERSON. You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not
drink before dinner.
RICHARD. You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William used
to drink before breakfast. Come: it will give your sermons
unction. (He smells the wine and makes a wry face.) But do
not begin on my mother's company sherry. I stole some
when I was six years old; and I have been a temperate man
ever since. (He puts the decanter down and changes the
subject.) So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your
wife has a most ungodly allowance of good looks.
ANDERSON (quietly indicating Judith). Sir: you are in the
presence of my wife. (Judith rises and stands with stony
propriety.)
RICHARD (quickly slipping down from the table with
instinctive good manners). Your servant, madam: no offence.
(He looks at her earnestly.) You deserve your reputation; but
I'm sorry to see by your expression that you're a good
woman.

(She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of
indignant sympathy from his relatives. Anderson,
sensible enough to know that these demonstrations can
only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately
trying to provoke them, remains perfectly
goodhumored.) All the same, Pastor, I respect you more
than I did before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not,
that our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried,
was a father?
UNCLE TITUS. He had only one irregular child, sir.
RICHARD. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I blush for
you, Uncle Titus.
ANDERSON. Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your
mother and her grief.
RICHARD. It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way,
what has become of the irregular child?
ANDERSON (pointing to Essie). There, sir, listening to you.
RICHARD (shocked into sincerity). What! Why the devil
didn't you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in this
house without— (He hurries remorsefully to Essie.) Come,
little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you.
(She looks up gratefully at him. Her tearstained face affects
him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath) Who
has been making her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? By
God—
MRS. DUDGEON (rising and confronting him). Silence your
blasphemous tongue. I will hear no more of this. Leave my
house.
RICHARD. How do you know it's your house until the will is
read? (They look at one another for a moment with intense
hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair.
Richard goes boldly up past Anderson to the window, where

he takes the railed chair in his hand.) Ladies and gentlemen:
as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head of
this household, I bid you welcome. By your leave, Minister
Anderson: by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the
table for the head of the family. (He places the chair at the
table between the minister and the attorney; sits down
between them; and addresses the assembly with a
presidential air.) We meet on a melancholy occasion: a father
dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. (He
shakes his head deploringly. The relatives freeze with
horror.) That's right: pull your longest faces (his voice
suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights on Essie)
provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child. (Briskly.)
Now then, Lawyer Hawkins: business, business. Get on with
the will, man.
TITUS. Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr.
Hawkins.
HAWKINS (very politely and willingly). Mr. Dudgeon means
no offence, I feel sure. I will not keep you one second, Mr.
Dudgeon. Just while I get my glasses— (he fumbles for them.
The Dudgeons look at one another with misgiving).
RICHARD. Aha! They notice your civility, Mr. Hawkins. They
are prepared for the worst. A glass of wine to clear your
voice before you begin. (He pours out one for him and hands
it; then pours one for himself.)
HAWKINS. Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, sir.
RICHARD. Yours, sir. (With the glass half way to his lips, he
checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and
adds, with quaint intensity.) Will anyone oblige me with a
glass of water?
Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and
movement, rises stealthily and slips out behind Mrs.
Dudgeon through the bedroom door, returning presently

with a jug and going out of the house as quietly as
possible.
HAWKINS. The will is not exactly in proper legal
phraseology.
RICHARD. No: my father died without the consolations of
the law.
HAWKINS. Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again.
(Preparing to read) Are you ready, sir?
RICHARD. Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to
receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead.
HAWKINS (reading). "This is the last will and testament of
me Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the
road from Springtown to Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth
day of September, one thousand seven hundred and seventy
seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made by me and
declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am
doing and that this is my real will according to my own wish
and affections."
RICHARD (glancing at his mother). Aha!
HAWKINS (shaking his head). Bad phraseology, sir, wrong
phraseology. "I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my
younger son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to
him on the day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if she will
have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of his children
up to the number of five."
RICHARD. How if she won't have him?
CHRISTY. She will if I have fifty pounds.
RICHARD. Good, my brother. Proceed.
HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath to my wife Annie
Dudgeon, born Annie Primrose"—you see he did not know the
law, Mr. Dudgeon: your mother was not born Annie: she was

christened so—"an annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for life
(Mrs. Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself
convulsively rigid) to be paid out of the interest on her own
money"—there's a way to put it, Mr. Dudgeon! Her own
money!
MRS. DUDGEON. A very good way to put God's truth. It
was every penny my own. Fifty-two pounds a year!
HAWKINS. "And I recommend her for her goodness and
piety to the forgiving care of her children, having stood
between them and her as far as I could to the best of my
ability."
MRS. DUDGEON. And this is my reward! (raging inwardly)
You know what I think, Mr. Anderson you know the word I
gave to it.
ANDERSON. It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We must
take what comes to us. (To Hawkins.) Go on, sir.
HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath my house at
Websterbridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of
my property soever to my eldest son and heir, Richard
Dudgeon."
RICHARD. Oho! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted calf.
HAWKINS. "On these conditions—"
RICHARD. The devil! Are there conditions?
HAWKINS. "To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother
Peter's natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil
life."
RICHARD (emphatically, striking his fist on the table).
Agreed.
Mrs. Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie,
misses her and looks quickly round to see where she has
moved to; then, seeing that she has left the room

without leave, closes her lips vengefully.
HAWKINS. "Second, that he shall be a good friend to my
old horse Jim"— (again slacking his head) he should have
written James, sir.
RICHARD. James shall live in clover. Go on.
HAWKINS. "—and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger
Feston in his service."
RICHARD. Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday.
HAWKINS. "Third, that he make Christy a present on his
marriage out of the ornaments in the best room."
RICHARD (holding up the stuffed birds). Here you are,
Christy.
CHRISTY (disappointed). I'd rather have the China
peacocks.
RICHARD. You shall have both. (Christy is greatly pleased.)
Go on.
HAWKINS. "Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace
with his mother as far as she will consent to it."
RICHARD (dubiously). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Hawkins?
HAWKINS (solemnly). "Finally I gave and bequeath my soul
into my Maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my
sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my son
that it may not be said that I have done wrong in trusting to
him rather than to others in the perplexity of my last hour in
this strange place."
ANDERSON. Amen.
THE UNCLES AND AUNTS. Amen.
RICHARD. My mother does not say Amen.
MRS. DUDGEON (rising, unable to give up her property

without a struggle). Mr. Hawkins: is that a proper will?
Remember, I have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by
yourself, leaving all to me.
HAWKINS. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded
will, Mrs. Dudgeon; though (turning politely to Richard) it
contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his
property.
ANDERSON (interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort).
That is not what you are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal
will?
HAWKINS. The courts will sustain it against the other.
ANDERSON. But why, if the other is more lawfully worded?
HAWKING. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of
a man—and that man the eldest son—against any woman, if
they can. I warned you, Mrs. Dudgeon, when you got me to
draw that other will, that it was not a wise will, and that
though you might make him sign it, he would never be easy
until he revoked it. But you wouldn't take advice; and now
Mr. Richard is cock of the walk. (He takes his hat from the
floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles.)
This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party.
Anderson takes his hat from the rack and joins Uncle
William at the fire. Uncle Titus fetches Judith her things
from the rack. The three on the sofa rise and chat with
Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now an intruder in her own
house, stands erect, crushed by the weight of the law on
women, accepting it, as she has been trained to accept
all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of
the power that inflicts them, and of her own wormlike
insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary
Wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her
Vindication of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years
off. Mrs. Dudgeon is rescued from her apathy by Essie,

who comes back with the jug full of water. She is taking
it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon stops her.
MRS. DUDGEON (threatening her). Where have you been?
(Essie, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot.) How dare you
go out by yourself after the orders I gave you?
ESSIE. He asked for a drink— (she stops, her tongue
cleaving to her palate with terror).
JUDITH (with gentler severity). Who asked for a drink?
(Essie, speechless, points to Richard.)
RICHARD. What! I!
JUDITH (shocked). Oh Essie, Essie!
RICHARD. I believe I did. (He takes a glass and holds it to
Essie to be filled. Her hand shakes.) What! afraid of me?
ESSIE (quickly). No. I— (She pours out the water.)
RICHARD (tasting it). Ah, you've been up the street to the
market gate spring to get that. (He takes a draught.)
Delicious! Thank you. (Unfortunately, at this moment he
chances to catch sight of Judith's face, which expresses the
most prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for Essie,
who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His mocking
expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass;
deliberately winds his arm round Essie's shoulders; and
brings her into the middle of the company. Mrs. Dudgeon
being in Essie's way as they come past the table, he says) By
your leave, mother (and compels her to make way for them).
What do they call you? Bessie?
ESSIE. Essie.
RICHARD. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie?
ESSIE (greatly disappointed that he, of all people should
begin at her in this way) Yes. (She looks doubtfully at
Judith.) I think so. I mean I—I hope so.

RICHARD. Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the
devil?
ANDERSON (revolted). Shame on you, sir, with a mere
child—
RICHARD. By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with
your sermons: do not you interrupt mine. (To Essie.) Do you
know what they call me, Essie?
ESSIE. Dick.
RICHARD (amused: patting her on the shoulder). Yes,
Dick; but something else too. They call me the Devil's
Disciple.
ESSIE. Why do you let them?
RICHARD (seriously). Because it's true. I was brought up in
the other service; but I knew from the first that the Devil
was my natural master and captain and friend. I saw that he
was in the right, and that the world cringed to his conqueror
only through fear. I prayed secretly to him; and he
comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in
this house of children's tears. I promised him my soul, and
swore an oath that I would stand up for him in this world and
stand by him in the next. (Solemnly) That promise and that
oath made a man of me. From this day this house is his
home; and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his altar; and
no soul shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings and be
afraid. Now (turning forcibly on the rest) which of you good
men will take this child and rescue her from the house of the
devil?
JUDITH (coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm
about her). I will. You should be burnt alive.
ESSIE. But I don't want to. (She shrinks back, leaving
Richard and Judith face to face.)

RICHARD (to Judith). Actually doesn't want to, most
virtuous lady!
UNCLE TITUS. Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law—
RICHARD (turning threateningly on him). Have a care, you.
In an hour from this there will be no law here but martial
law. I passed the soldiers within six miles on my way here:
before noon Major Swindon's gallows for rebels will be up in
the market place.
ANDERSON (calmly). What have we to fear from that, sir?
RICHARD. More than you think. He hanged the wrong man
at Springtown: he thought Uncle Peter was respectable,
because the Dudgeons had a good name. But his next
example will be the best man in the town to whom he can
bring home a rebellious word. Well, we're all rebels; and you
know it.
ALL THE MEN (except Anderson). No, no, no!
RICHARD. Yes, you are. You haven't damned King George
up hill and down dale as I have; but you've prayed for his
defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have conducted the
service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of pistols.
They mayn't hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of
the Devil's Disciple dancing on nothing wouldn't help them.
But a Minister! (Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson) or a
lawyer! (Hawkins smiles like a man able to take care of
himself) or an upright horsedealer! (Uncle Titus snarls at him
in rags and terror) or a reformed drunkard (Uncle William,
utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh? Would
that show that King George meant business—ha?
ANDERSON (perfectly self-possessed). Come, my dear: he
is only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. (He takes
her out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow
him, except Essie, who remains near Richard.)

RICHARD (boisterously derisive). Now then: how many of
you will stay with me; run up the American flag on the devil's
house; and make a fight for freedom? (They scramble out,
Christy among them, hustling one another in their haste.) Ha
ha! Long live the devil! (To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is following
them) What mother! are you off too?
MRS. DUDGEON (deadly pale, with her hand on her heart
as if she had received a deathblow). My curse on you! My
dying curse! (She goes out.)
RICHARD (calling after her). It will bring me luck. Ha ha
ha!
ESSIE (anxiously). Mayn't I stay?
RICHARD (turning to her). What! Have they forgotten to
save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh
yes: you may stay. (He turns excitedly away again and
shakes his fist after them. His left fist, also clenched, hangs
down. Essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. He
starts and looks at it.) Tears! The devil's baptism! (She falls
on her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise her,
saying) Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like.

Act II
Minister Anderson's house is in the main street of
Websterbridge, not far from the town hall. To the eye of the
eighteenth century New Englander, it is much grander than
the plain farmhouse of the Dudgeons; but it is so plain itself
that a modern house agent would let both at about the same
rent. The chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen
fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable
iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting,
and broad fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of
buttered toast. The door, between the fireplace and the
corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor handles: it is
made of plain boards, and fastens with a latch. The table is a
kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of American cloth,
chapped at the corners by draping. The tea service on it
consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware,
with milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to
contain nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the
middle of the table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon
it, and a square half pound block of butter in a crock. The big
oak press facing the fire from the opposite side of the room,
is for use and storage, not for ornament; and the minister's
house coat hangs on a peg from its door, showing that he is
out; for when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there. His
big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their
usual place, and rather proud of themselves. In fact, the
evolution of the minister's kitchen, dining room and drawing
room into three separate apartments has not yet taken
place; and so, from the point of view of our pampered
period, he is no better off than the Dudgeons.
But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs.
Anderson is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs.
Dudgeon. To which Mrs. Dudgeon would at once reply, with

reason, that Mrs. Anderson has no children to look after; no
poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not
directly dependent on harvests and prices at fairs; an
affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in
short, that life is as easy at the minister's house as it is hard
at the farm. This is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter
it; and however little credit Mrs. Anderson may deserve for
making her home happier, she has certainly succeeded in
doing it. The outward and visible signs of her superior social
pretensions are a drugget on the floor, a plaster ceiling
between the timbers and chairs which, though not
upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are
represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian
divine, a copperplate of Raphael's St. Paul preaching at
Athens, a rococo presentation clock on the mantelshelf,
flanked by a couple of miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs
with baskets in their mouths, and, at the corners, two large
cowrie shells. A pretty feature of the room is the low wide
latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little red
curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind.
There is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the
press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate
two people easily. On the whole, it is rather the sort of room
that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get
back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and his
disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel
clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago.
The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for
the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the
window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady,
warm, windless downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes
the quarter, Judith comes in with a couple of candles in
earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. Her
self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious
and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the

street. The first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying
here through the rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not
very far removed from a sob, and turns to the door.
Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak.
JUDITH (running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last!
(She attempts to embrace him.)
ANDERSON (keeping her off). Take care, my love: I'm wet.
Wait till I get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back to
the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his
hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his
hands outstretched to Judith.) Now! (She flies into his arms.)
I am not late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I
came in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast.
JUDITH. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad you're
back.
ANDERSON (taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious,
my dear?
JUDITH. A little.
ANDERSON. Why, you've been crying.
JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind: it's all over now. (A
bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and
retreats to the long seat, listening.) What's that?
ANDERSON (following her tenderly to the seat and making
her sit down with him). Only King George, my dear. He's
returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting
ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. Soldiers
don't ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want
anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the
whole town.
JUDITH. Do you think there is really any danger?
ANDERSON. Not the least in the world.

JUDITH. You say that to comfort me, not because you
believe it.
ANDERSON. My dear: in this world there is always danger
for those who are afraid of it. There's a danger that the
house will catch fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the
less soundly for that.
JUDITH. Yes, I know what you always say; and you're quite
right. Oh, quite right: I know it. But—I suppose I'm not
brave: that's all. My heart shrinks every time I think of the
soldiers.
ANDERSON. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the
worse for costing a little pain.
JUDITH. Yes, I suppose so. (Embracing him again.) Oh how
brave you are, my dear! (With tears in her eyes.) Well, I'll be
brave too: you shan't be ashamed of your wife.
ANDERSON. That's right. Now you make me happy. Well,
well! (He rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes.)
I called on Richard Dudgeon on my way back; but he wasn't
in.
JUDITH (rising in consternation). You called on that man!
ANDERSON (reassuring her). Oh, nothing happened,
dearie. He was out.
JUDITH (almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal
humiliation to her). But why did you go there?
ANDERSON (gravely). Well, it is all the talk that Major
Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown—make an
example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. He pounced
on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there; and it is the
general belief that he will pounce on Richard as the worst
here.
JUDITH. But Richard said—

ANDERSON (goodhumoredly cutting her short). Pooh!
Richard said! He said what he thought would frighten you
and frighten me, my dear. He said what perhaps (God forgive
him!) he would like to believe. It's a terrible thing to think of
what death must mean for a man like that. I felt that I must
warn him. I left a message for him.
JUDITH (querulously). What message?
ANDERSON. Only that I should be glad to see him for a
moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if he
would look in here when he was passing he would be
welcome.
JUDITH (aghast). You asked that man to come here!
ANDERSON. I did.
JUDITH (sinking on the seat and clasping her hands). I
hope he won't come! Oh, I pray that he may not come!
ANDERSON. Why? Don't you want him to be warned?
JUDITH. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it wrong to
hate a blasphemer and a villain? I do hate him! I can't get
him out of my mind: I know he will bring harm with him. He
insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted his mother.
ANDERSON (quaintly). Well, dear, let's forgive him; and
then it won't matter.
JUDITH. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody; but—
ANDERSON (going over to her with humorous tenderness).
Come, dear, you're not so wicked as you think. The worst sin
towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be
indifferent to them: that's the essence of inhumanity. After
all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you'll be surprised
to find how like hate is to love. (She starts, strangely
touched—even appalled. He is amused at her.) Yes: I'm quite
in earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry

one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another,
can't bear to let one another out of sight for a day, are more
like jailers and slave-owners than lovers. Think of those very
same people with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-
respecting, determined to be independent of one another,
careful of how they speak of one another—pooh! haven't you
often thought that if they only knew it, they were better
friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and
wives? Come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of
Richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. Eh?
JUDITH. Oh, don't say that: don't say that, Tony, even in
jest. You don't know what a horrible feeling it gives me.
ANDERSON (Laughing). Well, well: never mind, pet. He's a
bad man; and you hate him as he deserves. And you're going
to make the tea, aren't you?
JUDITH (remorsefully). Oh yes, I forgot. I've been keeping
you waiting all this time. (She goes to the fire and puts on
the kettle.)
ANDERSON (going to the press and taking his coat off).
Have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat?
JUDITH. Yes, dear. (She goes to the table, and sets about
putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.)
ANDERSON (as he changes his coat for the older one
hanging on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just
taken off). Did anyone call when I was out?
JUDITH. No, only— (someone knocks at the door. With a
start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to
the further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon, in
her hands, exclaiming) Who's that?
ANDERSON (going to her and patting her encouragingly on
the shoulder). All right, pet, all right. He won't eat you,
whoever he is. (She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself

cry. He goes to the door and opens it. Richard is there,
without overcoat or cloak.) You might have raised the latch
and come in, Mr. Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much
ceremony with us. (Hospitably.) Come in. (Richard comes in
carelessly and stands at the table, looking round the room
with a slight pucker of his nose at the mezzotinted divine on
the wall. Judith keeps her eyes on the tea caddy.) Is it still
raining? (He shuts the door.)
RICHARD. Raining like the very (his eye catches Judith's as
she looks quickly and haughtily up)—I beg your pardon; but
(showing that his coat is wet) you see—!
ANDERSON. Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire a
while: my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith: put in
another spoonful of tea for Mr. Dudgeon.
RICHARD (eyeing him cynically). The magic of property,
Pastor! Are even YOU civil to me now that I have succeeded
to my father's estate?
Judith throws down the spoon indignantly.
ANDERSON (quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with
his coat). I think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality,
you cannot have so bad an opinion of it. Sit down. (With the
coat in his hand, he points to the railed seat. Richard, in his
shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomely for a moment;
then, with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the
better of him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson pushes
his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and
hangs Richard's coat on the back in its place.)
RICHARD. I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left word
you had something important to tell me.
ANDERSON. I have a warning which it is my duty to give
you.

RICHARD (quickly rising). You want to preach to me.
Excuse me: I prefer a walk in the rain. (He makes for his
coat.)
ANDERSON (stopping him). Don't be alarmed, sir; I am no
great preacher. You are quite safe. (Richard smiles in spite of
himself. His glance softens: he even makes a gesture of
excuse. Anderson, seeing that he has tamed him, now
addresses him earnestly.) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in danger in
this town.
RICHARD. What danger?
ANDERSON. Your uncle's danger. Major Swindon's gallows.
RICHARD. It is you who are in danger. I warned you—
ANDERSON (interrupting him goodhumoredly but
authoritatively). Yes, yes, Mr. Dudgeon; but they do not
think so in the town. And even if I were in danger, I have
duties here I must not forsake. But you are a free man. Why
should you run any risk?
RICHARD. Do you think I should be any great loss,
Minister?
ANDERSON. I think that a man's life is worth saving,
whoever it belongs to. (Richard makes him an ironical bow.
Anderson returns the bow humorously.) Come: you'll have a
cup of tea, to prevent you catching cold?
RICHARD. I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so
pressing as you are, Pastor.
JUDITH (almost stifled with resentment, which she has
been expecting her husband to share and express for her at
every insult of Richard's). You are welcome for my husband's
sake. (She brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on
the hob.)
RICHARD. I know I am not welcome for my own, madam.

(He rises.) But I think I will not break bread here, Minister.
ANDERSON (cheerily). Give me a good reason for that.
RICHARD. Because there is something in you that I
respect, and that makes me desire to have you for my
enemy.
ANDERSON. That's well said. On those terms, sir, I will
accept your enmity or any man's. Judith: Mr. Dudgeon will
stay to tea. Sit down: it will take a few minutes to draw by
the fire. (Richard glances at him with a troubled face; then
sits down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive swelling of
his throat.) I was just saying to my wife, Mr. Dudgeon, that
enmity— (she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at him,
doing both with an intensity that checks him at once) Well,
well, I mustn't tell you, I see; but it was nothing that need
leave us worse friend—enemies, I mean. Judith is a great
enemy of yours.
RICHARD. If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson I
should be the best Christian in America.
ANDERSON (gratified, patting her hand). You hear that,
Judith? Mr. Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment.
The latch is lifted from without.
JUDITH (starting). Who is that?
Christy comes in.
CHRISTY (stopping and staring at Richard). Oh, are YOU
here?
RICHARD. Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn't
want the whole family to tea at once.
CHRISTY (coming further in). Mother's very ill.
RICHARD. Well, does she want to see ME?

CHRISTY. No.
RICHARD. I thought not.
CHRISTY. She wants to see the minister—at once.
JUDITH (to Anderson). Oh, not before you've had some
tea.
ANDERSON. I shall enjoy it more when I come back, dear.
(He is about to take up his cloak.)
CHRISTY. The rain's over.
ANDERSON (dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from
the fender). Where is your mother, Christy?
CHRISTY. At Uncle Titus's.
ANDERSON. Have you fetched the doctor?
CHRISTY. No: she didn't tell me to.
ANDERSON. Go on there at once: I'll overtake you on his
doorstep. (Christy turns to go.) Wait a moment. Your brother
must be anxious to know the particulars.
RICHARD. Psha! not I: he doesn't know; and I don't care.
(Violently.) Be off, you oaf. (Christy runs out. Richard adds, a
little shamefacedly) We shall know soon enough.
ANDERSON. Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the
news myself. Judith: will you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, and
keep him here until I return?
JUDITH (white and trembling). Must I—
ANDERSON (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover
her agitation). My dear: I can depend on you?
JUDITH (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust).
Yes.
ANDERSON (pressing her hand against his cheek). You will
not mind two old people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (Going.) I

shall not say good evening: you will be here when I come
back. (He goes out.)
They watch him pass the window, and then look at each
other dumbly, quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the
quiver of her lips, is the first to pull himself together.
RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the
nature of your sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude on
you. Good evening. (Again he starts for the fireplace to get
his coat.)
JUDITH (getting between him and the coat). No, no. Don't
go: please don't go.
RICHARD (roughly). Why? You don't want me here.
JUDITH. Yes, I— (wringing her hands in despair) Oh, if I
tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me.
RICHARD (indignantly). Torment! What right have you to
say that? Do you expect me to stay after that?
JUDITH. I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him
like an angry child) it is not because I like you.
RICHARD. Indeed!
JUDITH. Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me
about that. I hate and dread you; and my husband knows it.
If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe that
I disobeyed him and drove you away.
RICHARD (ironically). Whereas, of course, you have really
been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only
want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh?
Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts
into tears.
RICHARD. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don't do that.

(Putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound.) He wrung
my heart by being a man. Need you tear it by being a
woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like
himself? (She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat,
looking at him with a scared curiosity.) There: that's right.
(Sympathetically.) You're better now, aren't you? (He puts
his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises
haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into
his usual sardonic tone.) Ah, that's better. You are yourself
again: so is Richard. Well, shall we go to tea like a quiet
respectable couple, and wait for your husband's return?
JUDITH (rather ashamed of herself). If you please. I—I am
sorry to have been so foolish. (She stoops to take up the
plate of toast from the fender.)
RICHARD. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am—what I am.
Allow me. (He takes the plate from her and goes with it to
the table.)
JUDITH (following with the teapot). Will you sit down? (He
sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. There is a
plate and knife laid there. The other plate is laid near it; but
Judith stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire,
and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) Do
you take sugar?
RICHARD. No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some
toast. (He puts some on the second plate, and hands it to
her, with the knife. The action shows quietly how well he
knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far
from him as possible.)
JUDITH (consciously). Thanks. (She gives him his tea.)
Won't you help yourself?
RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts a piece of toast on his own
plate; and she pours out tea for herself.)
JUDITH (observing that he tastes nothing). Don't you like

it? You are not eating anything.
RICHARD. Neither are you.
JUDITH (nervously). I never care much for my tea. Please
don't mind me.
RICHARD (Looking dreamily round). I am thinking. It is all
so strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this
home: I think I have never been more at rest in my life than
at this moment; and yet I know quite well I could never live
here. It's not in my nature, I suppose, to be domesticated.
But it's very beautiful: it's almost holy. (He muses a moment,
and then laughs softly.)
JUDITH (quickly). Why do you laugh?
RICHARD. I was thinking that if any stranger came in here
now, he would take us for man and wife.
JUDITH (taking offence). You mean, I suppose, that you
are more my age than he is.
RICHARD (staring at this unexpected turn). I never thought
of such a thing. (Sardonic again.) I see there is another side
to domestic joy.
JUDITH (angrily). I would rather have a husband whom
everybody respects than—than—
RICHARD. Than the devil's disciple. You are right; but I
daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just as your
hate helps me to be a bad one.
JUDITH. My husband has been very good to you. He has
forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save you. Can
you not forgive him for being so much better than you are?
How dare you belittle him by putting yourself in his place?
RICHARD. Did I?
JUDITH. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came in
they would take us for man and— (she stops, terror-stricken,

as a squad of soldiers tramps past the window) The English
soldiers! Oh, what do they—
RICHARD (listening). Sh!
A VOICE (outside). Halt! Four outside: two in with me.
Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes
at Richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is
drinking his tea when the latch goes up with a sharp
click, and an English sergeant walks into the room with
two privates, who post themselves at the door. He comes
promptly to the table between them.
THE SERGEANT. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! Anthony
Anderson: I arrest you in King George's name as a rebel.
JUDITH (pointing at Richard). But that is not— (He looks up
quickly at her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth
hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and
stands staring affrightedly.)
THE SERGEANT. Come, Parson; put your coat on and come
along.
RICHARD. Yes: I'll come. (He rises and takes a step
towards his own coat; then recollects himself, and, with his
back to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room
without turning his head until he sees Anderson's black coat
hanging up on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it
down; and puts it on. The idea of himself as a parson tickles
him: he looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then
smiles slyly at Judith, whose white face shows him that what
she is painfully struggling to grasp is not the humor of the
situation but its horror. He turns to the sergeant, who is
approaching him with a pair of handcuffs hidden behind him,
and says lightly) Did you ever arrest a man of my cloth
before, Sergeant?

THE SERGEANT (instinctively respectful, half to the black
coat, half to Richard's good breeding). Well, no sir. At least,
only an army chaplain. (Showing the handcuffs.) I'm sorry,
air; but duty—
RICHARD. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of
them: thank you kindly for the apology. (He holds out his
hands.)
SERGEANT (not availing himself of the offer). One
gentleman to another, sir. Wouldn't you like to say a word to
your missis, sir, before you go?
RICHARD (smiling). Oh, we shall meet again before—eh?
(Meaning "before you hang me.")
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 to-morrow. 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 him? (Judith shudders
convulsively, and throws herself into the chair in which
Richard sat at the tea table.)
ANDERSON (patting Essie's shoulder and trying to comfort
her). I hope not. I hope not. Perhaps if you're very quiet and
patient, we may be able to help him in some way.
ESSIE. Yes—help him—yes, yes, yes. I'll be good.
ANDERSON. I must go to him at once, Judith.
JUDITH (springing up). Oh no. You must go away—far
away, to some place of safety.
ANDERSON. Pooh!
JUDITH (passionately). Do you want to kill me? Do you
think I can bear to live for days and days with every knock at
the door—every footstep—giving me a spasm of terror? to lie
awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread, listening
for them to come and arrest you?
ANDERSON. Do you think it would be better to know that I
had run away from my post at the first sign of danger?
JUDITH (bitterly). Oh, you won't go. I know it. You'll stay;
and I shall go mad.

ANDERSON. My dear, your duty—
JUDITH (fiercely). What do I care about my duty?
ANDERSON (shocked). Judith!
JUDITH. I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. My
duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to his fate.
(Essie utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair at the
fire, sobbing silently.) My instinct is the same as hers—to
save him above all things, though it would be so much better
for him to die! so much greater! But I know you will take
your own way as he took it. I have no power. (She sits down
sullenly on the railed seat.) I'm only a woman: I can do
nothing but sit here and suffer. Only, tell him I tried to save
you—that I did my best to save you.
ANDERSON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more
of his own danger than of mine.
JUDITH. Stop; or I shall hate you.
ANDERSON (remonstrating). Come, am I to leave you if
you talk like this! your senses. (He turns to Essie.) Essie.
ESSIE (eagerly rising and drying her eyes). Yes?
ANDERSON. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl:
Mrs. Anderson is not well. (Essie looks doubtful.) Never fear:
I'll come to you presently; and I'll go to Dick.
ESSIE. You are sure you will go to him? (Whispering.) You
won't let her prevent you?
ANDERSON (smiling). No, no: it's all right. All right. (She
goes.) That's a good girl. (He closes the door, and returns to
Judith.)
JUDITH (seated—rigid). You are going to your death.
ANDERSON (quaintly). Then I shall go in my best coat,
dear. (He turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.)
Where—? (He stares at the empty nail for a moment; then

looks quickly round to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts
Richard's coat.) Why, my dear, it seems that he has gone in
my best coat.
JUDITH (still motionless). Yes.
ANDERSON. Did the soldiers make a mistake?
JUDITH. Yes: they made a mistake.
ANDERSON. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he was
too upset, I suppose.
JUDITH. Yes: he might have told them. So might I.
ANDERSON. Well, it's all very puzzling—almost funny. It's
curious how these little things strike us even in the most—
(he breaks off and begins putting on Richard's coat) I'd
better take him his own coat. I know what he'll say—
(imitating Richard's sardonic manner) "Anxious about my
soul, Pastor, and also about your best coat." Eh?
JUDITH. Yes, that is just what he will say to you.
(Vacantly.) It doesn't matter: I shall never see either of you
again.
ANDERSON (rallying her). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (He sits
down beside her.) Is this how you keep your promise that I
shan't be ashamed of my brave wife?
JUDITH. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my
promises to him: why should I keep my promises to you?
ANDERSON. Don't speak so strangely, my love. It sounds
insincere to me. (She looks unutterable reproach at him.)
Yes, dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is
talking nonsense. Just nonsense. (Her face darkens into
dumb obstinacy. She stares straight before her, and does not
look at him again, absorbed in Richard's fate. He scans her
face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives
it up, making no further effort to conceal his anxiety.) I wish

I knew what has frightened you so. Was there a struggle?
Did he fight?
JUDITH. No. He smiled.
ANDERSON. Did he realise his danger, do you think?
JUDITH. He realised yours.
ANDERSON. Mine!
JUDITH (monotonously). He said, "See that you get him
safely out of harm's way." I promised: I can't keep my
promise. He said, "Don't for your life let him know of my
danger." I've told you of it. He said that if you found it out,
you could not save him—that they will hang him and not
spare you.
ANDERSON (rising in generous indignation). And you think
that I will let a man with that much good in him die like a
dog, when a few words might make him die like a Christian?
I'm ashamed of you, Judith.
JUDITH. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are in
yours; and you may depend on him to the death. He said so.
ANDERSON. God forgive him! What else did he say?
JUDITH. He said goodbye.
ANDERSON (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great
concern). Poor fellow, poor fellow! You said goodbye to him
in all kindness and charity, Judith, I hope.
JUDITH. I kissed him.
ANDERSON. What! Judith!
JUDITH. Are you angry?
ANDERSON. No, no. You were right: you were right. Poor
fellow, poor fellow! (Greatly distressed.) To be hanged like
that at his age! And then did they take him away?

JUDITH (wearily). Then you were here: that's the next
thing I remember. I suppose I fainted. Now bid me goodbye,
Tony. Perhaps I shall faint again. I wish I could die.
ANDERSON. No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself
together and be sensible. I am in no danger—not the least in
the world.
JUDITH (solemnly). You are going to your death, Tony—
your sure death, if God will let innocent men be murdered.
They will not let you see him: they will arrest you the
moment you give your name. It was for you the soldiers
came.
ANDERSON (thunderstruck). For me!!! (His fists clinch; his
neck thickens; his face reddens; the fleshy purses under his
eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace
vanishes, transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of
war. Still, she does not come out of her absorption to look at
him: her eyes are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of
Richard's stead-fastness.)
JUDITH. He took your place: he is dying to save you. That
is why he went in your coat. That is why I kissed him.
ANDERSON (exploding). Blood an' owns! (His voice is
rough and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.) Here!
Essie, Essie!
ESSIE (running in). Yes.
ANDERSON (impetuously). Off with you as hard as you can
run, to the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest
horse they have (Judith rises breathless, and stares at him
incredulously)—the chestnut mare, if she's fresh—without a
moment's delay. Go into the stable yard and tell the black
man there that I'll give him a silver dollar if the horse is
waiting for me when I come, and that I am close on your
heels. Away with you. (His energy sends Essie flying from the
room. He pounces on his riding boots; rushes with them to

the chair at the fire; and begins pulling them on.)
JUDITH (unable to believe such a thing of him). You are not
going to him!
ANDERSON (busy with the boots). Going to him! What
good would that do? (Growling to himself as he gets the first
boot on with a wrench) I'll go to them, so I will. (To Judith
peremptorily) Get me the pistols: I want them. And money,
money: I want money—all the money in the house. (He
stoops over the other boot, grumbling) A great satisfaction it
would be to him to have my company on the gallows. (He
pulls on the boot.)
JUDITH. You are deserting him, then?
ANDERSON. Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the
pistols. (She goes to the press and takes from it a leather
belt with two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets
attached to it. She throws it on the table. Then she unlocks a
drawer in the press and takes out a purse. Anderson grabs
the belt and buckles it on, saying) If they took him for me in
my coat, perhaps they'll take me for him in his. (Hitching the
belt into its place) Do I look like him?
JUDITH (turning with the purse in her hand). Horribly
unlike him.
ANDERSON (snatching the purse from her and emptying it
on the table). Hm! We shall see.
JUDITH (sitting down helplessly). Is it of any use to pray,
do you think, Tony?
ANDERSON (counting the money). Pray! Can we pray
Swindon's rope off Richard's neck?
JUDITH. God may soften Major Swindon's heart.
ANDERSON (contemptuously—pocketing a handful of
money). Let him, then. I am not God; and I must go to work

another way. (Judith gasps at the blasphemy. He throws the
purse on the table.) Keep that. I've taken 25 dollars.
JUDITH. Have you forgotten even that you are a minister?
ANDERSON. Minister be—faugh! My hat: where's my hat?
(He snatches up hat and cloak, and puts both on in hot
haste.) Now listen, you. If you can get a word with him by
pretending you're his wife, tell him to hold his tongue until
morning: that will give me all the start I need.
JUDITH (solemnly). You may depend on him to the death.
ANDERSON. You're a fool, a fool, Judith (for a moment
checking the torrent of his haste, and speaking with
something of his old quiet and impressive conviction). You
don't know the man you're married to. (Essie returns. He
swoops at her at once.) Well: is the horse ready?
ESSIE (breathless). It will be ready when you come.
ANDERSON. Good. (He makes for the door.)
JUDITH (rising and stretching out her arms after him
involuntarily). Won't you say goodbye?
ANDERSON. And waste another half minute! Psha! (He
rushes out like an avalanche.)
ESSIE (hurrying to Judith). He has gone to save Richard,
hasn't he?
JUDITH. To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. He
has gone to save himself. Richard must die.
Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding
her face. Judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly
straight in front of her, at the vision of Richard, dying.

Act III
Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters
in the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled
waiting room, and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad
night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality
of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments
when her attention is not strongly held.
The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is
sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine
figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels
specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her.
SERGEANT. You can have a quiet word with him here,
mum.
JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait?
SERGEANT. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the
Bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought over here
for the court martial. Don't fret, mum: he slep like a child,
and has made a rare good breakfast.
JUDITH (incredulously). He is in good spirits!
SERGEANT. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see
him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at
spoil five. He spent it among us like the gentleman he is.
Duty's duty, mum, of course; but you're among friends here.
(The tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approaching.)
There: I think he's coming. (Richard comes in, without a sign
of care or captivity in his bearing. The sergeant nods to the
two soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his
hand. They withdraw.) Your good lady, sir.
RICHARD (going to her). What! My wife. My adored one.
(He takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish
gallantry.) How long do you allow a brokenhearted husband

for leave-taking, Sergeant?
SERGEANT. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb you
till the court sits.
RICHARD. But it has struck the hour.
SERGEANT. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General
Burgoyne's just arrived—Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir
—and he won't have done finding fault with everything this
side of half past. I know him, sir: I served with him in
Portugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir; and by your
leave I won't waste any more of them. (He goes out, locking
the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and
turns to Judith with considerate sincerity.)
RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. And
how are you after last night? I had to leave you before you
recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and look after you.
Did she understand the message?
JUDITH (breathless and urgent). Oh, don't think of me: I
haven't come here to talk about myself. Are they going to—
to— (meaning "to hang you")?
RICHARD (whimsically). At noon, punctually. At least, that
was when they disposed of Uncle Peter. (She shudders.) Is
your husband safe? Is he on the wing?
JUDITH. He is no longer my husband.
RICHARD (opening his eyes wide). Eh!
JUDITH. I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I expected
him to come here and save you. I wanted him to come here
and save you. He ran away instead.
RICHARD. Well, that's what I meant him to do. What good
would his staying have done? They'd only have hanged us
both.
JUDITH (with reproachful earnestness). Richard Dudgeon:

on your honour, what would you have done in his place?
RICHARD. Exactly what he has done, of course.
JUDITH. Oh, why will you not be simple with me—honest
and straightforward? If you are so selfish as that, why did
you let them take you last night?
RICHARD (gaily). Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don't
know. I've been asking myself that question ever since; and I
can find no manner of reason for acting as I did.
JUDITH. You know you did it for his sake, believing he was
a more worthy man than yourself.
RICHARD (laughing). Oho! No: that's a very pretty reason,
I must say; but I'm not so modest as that. No: it wasn't for
his sake.
JUDITH (after a pause, during which she looks
shamefacedly at him, blushing painfully). Was it for my sake?
RICHARD (gallantly). Well, you had a hand in it. It must
have been a little for your sake. You let them take me, at all
events.
JUDITH. Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself
that all night? Your death will be at my door. (Impulsively,
she gives him her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness)
If I could save you as you saved him, I would do it, no
matter how cruel the death was.
RICHARD (holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her
almost at arm's length). I am very sure I shouldn't let you.
JUDITH. Don't you see that I can save you?
RICHARD. How? By changing clothes with me, eh?
JUDITH (disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it).
Don't (meaning "Don't jest"). No: by telling the Court who
you really are.

RICHARD (frowning). No use: they wouldn't spare me; and
it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. They are
determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on
that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by showing that
we can stand by one another to the death. That is the only
force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and
make America a nation.
JUDITH (impatiently). Oh, what does all that matter?
RICHARD (laughing). True: what does it matter? what does
anything matter? You see, men have these strange notions,
Mrs. Anderson; and women see the folly of them.
JUDITH. Women have to lose those they love through
them.
RICHARD. They can easily get fresh lovers.
JUDITH (revolted). Oh! (Vehemently) Do you realise that
you are going to kill yourself?
RICHARD. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs.
Anderson. Don't be concerned: no woman will lose her lover
through my death. (Smiling) Bless you, nobody cares for me.
Have you heard that my mother is dead?
JUDITH. Dead!
RICHARD. Of heart disease—in the night. Her last word to
me was her curse: I don't think I could have borne her
blessing. My other relatives will not grieve much on my
account. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I have provided
for her: I made my own will last night.
JUDITH (stonily, after a moment's silence). And I!
RICHARD (surprised). You?
JUDITH. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all?
RICHARD (gaily and bluntly). Not a scrap. Oh, you
expressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday.

What happened may have softened you for the moment; but
believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don't like a bone in my skin
or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance at 12
today as I should have been at 12 yesterday.
JUDITH (her voice trembling). What can I do to show you
that you are mistaken?
RICHARD. Don't trouble. I'll give you credit for liking me a
little better than you did. All I say is that my death will not
break your heart.
JUDITH (almost in a whisper). How do you know? (She
puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.)
RICHARD (amazed—divining the truth). Mrs. Anderson!!!
(The bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. He collects
himself, and removes her hands, saying rather coldly) Excuse
me: they will be here for me presently. It is too late.
JUDITH. It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will
never kill you when they know how heroically you have
acted.
RICHARD (with some scorn). Indeed! But if I don't go
through with it, where will the heroism be? I shall simply
have tricked them; and they'll hang me for that like a dog.
Serve me right too!
JUDITH (wildly). Oh, I believe you WANT to die.
RICHARD (obstinately). No I don't.
JUDITH. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore you—
listen. You said just now that you saved him for my sake—
yes (clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of denial) a
little for my sake. Well, save yourself for my sake. And I will
go with you to the end of the world.
RICHARD (taking her by the wrists and holding her a little
way from him, looking steadily at her). Judith.

JUDITH (breathless—delighted at the name). Yes.
RICHARD. If I said—to please you—that I did what I did
ever so little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to
women. You know how much I have lived with worthless men
—aye, and worthless women too. Well, they could all rise to
some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love.
(The word love comes from him with true Puritan scorn.)
That has taught me to set very little store by the goodness
that only comes out red hot. What I did last night, I did in
cold blood, caring not half so much for your husband, or
(ruthlessly) for you (she droops, stricken) as I do for myself.
I had no motive and no interest: all I can tell you is that
when it came to the point whether I would take my neck out
of the noose and put another man's into it, I could not do it. I
don't know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; but
I could not and I cannot. I have been brought up standing by
the law of my own nature; and I may not go against it,
gallows or no gallows. (She has slowly raised her head and is
now looking full at him.) I should have done the same for
any other man in the town, or any other man's wife.
(Releasing her.) Do you understand that?
JUDITH. Yes: you mean that you do not love me.
RICHARD (revolted—with fierce contempt). Is that all it
means to you?
JUDITH. What more—what worse—can it mean to me?
(The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her
heart.) Oh, one moment more. (She throws herself on
her knees.) I pray to you—
RICHARD. Hush! (Calling) Come in. (The sergeant unlocks
the door and opens it. The guard is with him.)
SERGEANT (coming in). Time's up, sir.

RICHARD. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (He
attempts to raise her.)
JUDITH (clinging to him). Only one thing more—I entreat, I
implore you. Let me be present in the court. I have seen
Major Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you asked it.
You will ask it. It is my last request: I shall never ask you
anything again. (She clasps his knee.) I beg and pray it of
you.
RICHARD. If I do, will you be silent?
JUDITH. Yes.
RICHARD. You will keep faith?
JUDITH. I will keep— (She breaks down, sobbing.)
RICHARD (taking her arm to lift her). Just—her other arm,
Sergeant.
They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the
two men.
Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court
martial. It is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the
middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon
curtains with the royal monogram G. R. In front of the chair
is a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy
inkstand, and writing materials on it. Several chairs are set
at the table. The door is at the right hand of the occupant of
the chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is
empty. Major Swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very
conscientious looking man of about 45, sits at the end of the
table with his back to the door, writing. He is alone until the
sergeant announces the General in a subdued manner which
suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his
presence felt rather heavily.
SERGEANT. The General, sir.

Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in, the
sergeant goes out. General Burgoyne is 55, and very well
preserved. He is a man of fashion, gallant enough to
have made a distinguished marriage by an elopement,
witty enough to write successful comedies,
aristocratically-connected enough to have had
opportunities of high military distinction. His eyes, large,
brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most
remarkable feature: without them his fine nose and small
mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less
force than go to the making of a first rate general. Just
now the eyes are angry and tragic, and the mouth and
nostrils tense.
BURGOYNE. Major Swindon, I presume.
SWINDON. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. (They
bow to one another ceremoniously.) I am glad to have the
support of your presence this morning. It is not particularly
lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister.
BURGOYNE (throwing himself onto Swindon's chair). No,
sir, it is not. It is making too much of the fellow to execute
him: what more could you have done if he had been a
member of the Church of England? Martyrdom, sir, is what
these people like: it is the only way in which a man can
become famous without ability. However, you have
committed us to hanging him: and the sooner he is hanged
the better.
SWINDON. We have arranged it for 12 o'clock. Nothing
remains to be done except to try him.
BURGOYNE (looking at him with suppressed anger).
Nothing—except to save our own necks, perhaps. Have you
heard the news from Springtown?
SWINDON. Nothing special. The latest reports are
satisfactory.

BURGOYNE (rising in amazement). Satisfactory, sir!
Satisfactory!! (He stares at him for a moment, and then
adds, with grim intensity) I am glad you take that view of
them.
SWINDON (puzzled). Do I understand that in your opinion
—
BURGOYNE. I do not express my opinion. I never stoop to
that habit of profane language which unfortunately coarsens
our profession. If I did, sir, perhaps I should be able to
express my opinion of the news from Springtown—the news
which YOU (severely) have apparently not heard. How soon
do you get news from your supports here?—in the course of
a month eh?
SWINDON (turning sulky). I suppose the reports have been
taken to you, sir, instead of to me. Is there anything serious?
BURGOYNE (taking a report from his pocket and holding it
up). Springtown's in the hands of the rebels. (He throws the
report on the table.)
SWINDON (aghast). Since yesterday!
BURGOYNE. Since two o'clock this morning. Perhaps WE
shall be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow morning.
Have you thought of that?
SWINDON (confidently). As to that, General, the British
soldier will give a good account of himself.
BURGOYNE (bitterly). And therefore, I suppose, sir, the
British officer need not know his business: the British soldier
will get him out of all his blunders with the bayonet. In
future, sir, I must ask you to be a little less generous with
the blood of your men, and a little more generous with your
own brains.
SWINDON. I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intellectual
eminence, sir. I can only do my best, and rely on the

devotion of my countrymen.
BURGOYNE (suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic). May I
ask are you writing a melodrama, Major Swindon?
SWINDON (flushing). No, sir.
BURGOYNE. What a pity! WHAT a pity! (Dropping his
sarcastic tone and facing him suddenly and seriously) Do you
at all realize, sir, that we have nothing standing between us
and destruction but our own bluff and the sheepishness of
these colonists? They are men of the same English stock as
ourselves: six to one of us (repeating it emphatically), six to
one, sir; and nearly half our troops are Hessians,
Brunswickers, German dragoons, and Indians with scalping
knives. These are the countrymen on whose devotion you
rely! Suppose the colonists find a leader! Suppose the news
from Springtown should turn out to mean that they have
already found a leader! What shall we do then? Eh?
SWINDON (sullenly). Our duty, sir, I presume.
BURGOYNE (again sarcastic—giving him up as a fool).
Quite so, quite so. Thank you, Major Swindon, thank you.
Now you've settled the question, sir—thrown a flood of light
on the situation. What a comfort to me to feel that I have at
my side so devoted and able an officer to support me in this
emergency! I think, sir, it will probably relieve both our
feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further
delay (he strikes the bell), especially as I am debarred by my
principles from the customary military vent for my feelings.
(The sergeant appears.) Bring your man in.
SERGEANT. Yes, sir.
BURGOYNE. And mention to any officer you may meet that
the court cannot wait any longer for him.
SWINDON (keeping his temper with difficulty). The staff is
perfectly ready, sir. They have been waiting your

convenience for fully half an hour. PERFECTLY ready, sir.
BURGOYNE (blandly). So am I. (Several officers come in
and take their seats. One of them sits at the end of the table
furthest from the door, and acts throughout as clerk to the
court, making notes of the proceedings. The uniforms are
those of the 9th, 20th, 21st, 24th, 47th, 53rd, and 62nd
British Infantry. One officer is a Major General of the Royal
Artillery. There are also German officers of the Hessian Rifles,
and of German dragoon and Brunswicker regiments.) Oh,
good morning, gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you, I am sure.
Very good of you to spare us a few moments.
SWINDON. Will you preside, sir?
BURGOYNE (becoming additionally, polished, lofty,
sarcastic and urbane now that he is in public). No, sir: I feel
my own deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. If you will
kindly allow me, I will sit at the feet of Gamaliel. (He takes
the chair at the end of the table next the door, and motions
Swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated
before sitting himself.)
SWINDON (greatly annoyed). As you please, sir. I am only
trying to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances.
(He takes his place in the chair of state.)
Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the
moment, sits down and begins to read the report with
knitted brows and careworn looks, reflecting on his
desperate situation and Swindon's uselessness. Richard is
brought in. Judith walks beside him. Two soldiers precede
and two follow him, with the sergeant in command. They
cross the room to the wall opposite the door; but when
Richard has just passed before the chair of state the
sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and posts
himself behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at
the wall. The four soldiers place themselves in a squad

near her.
BURGOYNE (looking up and seeing Judith). Who is that
woman?
SERGEANT. Prisoner's wife, sir.
SWINDON (nervously). She begged me to allow her to be
present; and I thought—
BURGOYNE (completing the sentence for him ironically).
You thought it would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite
so. (Blandly) Give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly
comfortable.
The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard.
JUDITH. Thank you, sir. (She sits down after an awe-
stricken curtsy to Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a
dignified bend of his head.)
SWINDON (to Richard, sharply). Your name, sir?
RICHARD (affable, but obstinate). Come: you don't mean
to say that you've brought me here without knowing who I
am?
SWINDON. As a matter of form, sir, give your name.
RICHARD. As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony
Anderson, Presbyterian minister in this town.
BURGOYNE (interested). Indeed! Pray, Mr. Anderson, what
do you gentlemen believe?
RICHARD. I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me.
I cannot undertake to complete your conversion in less than
a fortnight.
SWINDON (snubbing him). We are not here to discuss your
views.

BURGOYNE (with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate
Swindon). I stand rebuked.
SWINDON (embarrassed). Oh, not you, I as—
BURGOYNE. Don't mention it. (To Richard, very politely)
Any political views, Mr. Anderson?
RICHARD. I understand that that is just what we are here
to find out.
SWINDON (severely). Do you mean to deny that you are a
rebel?
RICHARD. I am an American, sir.
SWINDON. What do you expect me to think of that speech,
Mr. Anderson?
RICHARD. I never expect a soldier to think, sir.
Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which
almost reconciles him to the loss of America.
SWINDON (whitening with anger). I advise you not to be
insolent, prisoner.
RICHARD. You can't help yourself, General. When you
make up your mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a
disadvantage with him. Why should I be civil to you? I may
as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
SWINDON. You have no right to assume that the court has
made up its mind without a fair trial. And you will please not
address me as General. I am Major Swindon.
RICHARD. A thousand pardons. I thought I had the honor
of addressing Gentlemanly Johnny.
Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow
escape from a guffaw.

BURGOYNE (with extreme suavity). I believe I am
Gentlemanly Johnny, sir, at your service. My more intimate
friends call me General Burgoyne. (Richard bows with perfect
politeness.) You will understand, sir, I hope, since you seem
to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in spite of your
calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang you,
we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and
military duty, without any personal ill-feeling.
RICHARD. Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference in the
world, of course.
They all smile in spite of themselves: and some of the
younger officers burst out laughing.
JUDITH (her dread and horror deepening at every one of
these jests and compliments). How CAN you?
RICHARD. You promised to be silent.
BURGOYNE (to Judith, with studied courtesy). Believe me,
madam, your husband is placing us under the greatest
obligation by taking this very disagreeable business so
thoroughly in the spirit of a gentleman. Sergeant: give Mr.
Anderson a chair. (The sergeant does so. Richard sits down.)
Now, Major Swindon: we are waiting for you.
SWINDON. You are aware, I presume, Mr. Anderson, of
your obligations as a subject of His Majesty King George the
Third.
RICHARD. I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George
the Third is about to hang me because I object to Lord
North's robbing me.
SWINDON. That is a treasonable speech, sir.
RICHARD (briefly). Yes. I meant it to be.
BURGOYNE (strongly deprecating this line of defence, but
still polite). Don't you think, Mr. Anderson, that this is rather

—if you will excuse the word—a vulgar line to take? Why
should you cry out robbery because of a stamp duty and a
tea duty and so forth? After all, it is the essence of your
position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace.
RICHARD. It is not the money, General. But to be swindled
by a pig-headed lunatic like King George.
SWINDON (scandalised). Chut, sir—silence!
SERGEANT (in stentorian tones, greatly shocked). Silence!
BURGOYNE (unruffled). Ah, that is another point of view.
My position does not allow of my going into that, except in
private. But (shrugging his shoulders) of course, Mr.
Anderson, if you are determined to be hanged (Judith
flinches), there's nothing more to be said. An unusual taste!
however (with a final shrug)—!
SWINDON (to Burgoyne). Shall we call witnesses?
RICHARD. What need is there of witnesses? If the
townspeople here had listened to me, you would have found
the streets barricaded, the houses loopholed, and the people
in arms to hold the town against you to the last man. But
you arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the
talking stage; and then it was too late.
SWINDON (severely). Well, sir, we shall teach you and
your townspeople a lesson they will not forget. Have you
anything more to say?
RICHARD. I think you might have the decency to treat me
as a prisoner of war, and shoot me like a man instead of
hanging me like a dog.
BURGOYNE (sympathetically). Now there, Mr. Anderson,
you talk like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. Have
you any idea of the average marksmanship of the army of
His Majesty King George the Third? If we make you up a
firing party, what will happen? Half of them will miss you: the

rest will make a mess of the business and leave you to the
provo-marshal's pistol. Whereas we can hang you in a
perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. (Kindly) Let me
persuade you to be hanged, Mr. Anderson?
JUDITH (sick with horror). My God!
RICHARD (to Judith). Your promise! (To Burgoyne) Thank
you, General: that view of the case did not occur to me
before. To oblige you, I withdraw my objection to the rope.
Hang me, by all means.
BURGOYNE (smoothly). Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr.
Anderson?
RICHARD. I shall be at your disposal then, General.
BURGOYNE (rising). Nothing more to be said, gentlemen.
(They all rise.)
JUDITH (rushing to the table). Oh, you are not going to
murder a man like that, without a proper trial—without
thinking of what you are doing—without— (She cannot find
words.)
RICHARD. Is this how you keep your promise?
JUDITH. If I am not to speak, you must. Defend yourself:
save yourself: tell them the truth.
RICHARD (worriedly). I have told them truth enough to
hang me ten times over. If you say another word you will risk
other lives; but you will not save mine.
BURGOYNE. My good lady, our only desire is to save
unpleasantness. What satisfaction would it give you to have a
solemn fuss made, with my friend Swindon in a black cap
and so forth? I am sure we are greatly indebted to the
admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shown by your
husband.
JUDITH (throwing the words in his face). Oh, you are mad.

Is it nothing to you what wicked thing you do if only you do it
like a gentleman? Is it nothing to you whether you are a
murderer or not, if only you murder in a red coat?
(Desperately) You shall not hang him: that man is not my
husband.
The officers look at one another, and whisper: some of
the Germans asking their neighbors to explain what the
woman has said. Burgoyne, who has been visibly shaken
by Judith's reproach, recovers himself promptly at this
new development. Richard meanwhile raises his voice
above the buzz.
RICHARD. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to
this. She will not believe that she cannot save me. Break up
the court.
BURGOYNE (in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores
silence at once). One moment, Mr. Anderson. One moment,
gentlemen. (He resumes his seat. Swindon and the officers
follow his example.) Let me understand you clearly, madam.
Do you mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or
merely—I wish to put this with all delicacy—that you are not
his wife?
JUDITH. I don't know what you mean. I say that he is not
my husband—that my husband has escaped. This man took
his place to save him. Ask anyone in the town—send out into
the street for the first person you find there, and bring him in
as a witness. He will tell you that the prisoner is not Anthony
Anderson.
BURGOYNE (quietly, as before). Sergeant.
SERGEANT. Yes sir.
BURGOYNE. Go out into the street and bring in the first
townsman you see there.

SERGEANT (making for the door). Yes sir.
BURGOYNE (as the sergeant passes). The first clean, sober
townsman you see.
SERGEANT. Yes Sir. (He goes out.)
BURGOYNE. Sit down, Mr. Anderson—if I may call you so
for the present. (Richard sits down.) Sit down, madam, whilst
we wait. Give the lady a newspaper.
RICHARD (indignantly). Shame!
BURGOYNE (keenly, with a half smile). If you are not her
husband, sir, the case is not a serious one—for her. (Richard
bites his lip silenced.)
JUDITH (to Richard, as she returns to her seat). I couldn't
help it. (He shakes his head. She sits down.)
BURGOYNE. You will understand of course, Mr. Anderson,
that you must not build on this little incident. We are bound
to make an example of somebody.
RICHARD. I quite understand. I suppose there's no use in
my explaining.
BURGOYNE. I think we should prefer independent
testimony, if you don't mind.
The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand,
returns conducting Christy, who is much scared.
SERGEANT (giving Burgoyne the packet). Dispatches, Sir.
Delivered by a corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard
riding, sir.
Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes
absorbed in them. They are so serious as to take his
attention completely from the court martial.

SERGEANT (to Christy). Now then. Attention; and take
your hat off. (He posts himself in charge of Christy, who
stands on Burgoyne's side of the court.)
RICHARD (in his usual bullying tone to Christy). Don't be
frightened, you fool: you're only wanted as a witness.
They're not going to hang YOU.
SWINDON. What's your name?
CHRISTY. Christy.
RICHARD (impatiently). Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant
idiot. Give your full name.
SWINDON. Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt the
witness.
RICHARD. Very well. But I warn you you'll get nothing out
of him unless you shake it out of him. He has been too well
brought up by a pious mother to have any sense or manhood
left in him.
BURGOYNE (springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a
startling voice). Where is the man who brought these?
SERGEANT. In the guard-room, sir.
Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers
exchanging looks.
SWINDON (to Christy). Do you know Anthony Anderson,
the Presbyterian minister?
CHRISTY. Of course I do. (Implying that Swindon must be
an ass not to know it.)
SWINDON. Is he here?
CHRISTY (staring round). I don't know.
SWINDON. Do you see him?

CHRISTY. No.
SWINDON. You seem to know the prisoner?
CHRISTY. Do you mean Dick?
SWINDON. Which is Dick?
CHRISTY (pointing to Richard). Him.
SWINDON. What is his name?
CHRISTY. Dick.
RICHARD. Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What do
they know about Dick?
CHRISTY. Well, you are Dick, ain't you? What am I to say?
SWINDON. Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be
silent. Tell us who the prisoner is.
CHRISTY. He's my brother Dudgeon.
SWINDON. Your brother!
CHRISTY. Yes.
SWINDON. You are sure he is not Anderson.
CHRISTY. Who?
RICHARD (exasperatedly). Me, me, me, you—
SWINDON. Silence, sir.
SERGEANT (shouting). Silence.
RICHARD (impatiently). Yah! (To Christy) He wants to
know am I Minister Anderson. Tell him, and stop grinning like
a zany.
CHRISTY (grinning more than ever). YOU Pastor Anderson!
(To Swindon) Why, Mr. Anderson's a minister—-a very good
man; and Dick's a bad character: the respectable people
won't speak to him. He's the bad brother: I'm the good one,
(The officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin.)

SWINDON. Who arrested this man?
SERGEANT. I did, sir. I found him in the minister's house,
sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite at home. If
he isn't married to her, he ought to be.
SWINDON. Did he answer to the minister's name?
SERGEANT. Yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. You ask
the chaplain, sir.
SWINDON (to Richard, threateningly). So, sir, you have
attempted to cheat us. And your name is Richard Dudgeon?
RICHARD. You've found it out at last, have you?
SWINDON. Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh?
RICHARD. Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, was
my uncle.
SWINDON. Hm! (He compresses his lips and looks at
Richard with vindictive gravity.)
CHRISTY. Are they going to hang you, Dick?
RICHARD. Yes. Get out: they've done with you.
CHRISTY. And I may keep the china peacocks?
RICHARD (jumping up). Get out. Get out, you blithering
baboon, you. (Christy flies, panicstricken.)
SWINDON (rising—all rise). Since you have taken the
minister's place, Richard Dudgeon, you shall go through with
it. The execution will take place at 12 o'clock as arranged;
and unless Anderson surrenders before then you shall take
his place on the gallows. Sergeant: take your man out.
JUDITH (distracted). No, no—
SWINDON (fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties).
Take that woman away.
RICHARD (springing across the table with a tiger-like

bound, and seizing Swindon by the throat). You infernal
scoundrel.
The sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the
soldiers from the other. They seize Richard and drag him
back to his place. Swindon, who has been thrown supine
on the table, rises, arranging his stock. He is about to
speak, when he is anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just
appeared at the door with two papers in his hand: a
white letter and a blue dispatch.
BURGOYNE (advancing to the table, elaborately cool). What
is this? What's happening? Mr. Anderson: I'm astonished at
you.
RICHARD. I am sorry I disturbed you, General. I merely
wanted to strangle your understrapper there. (Breaking out
violently at Swindon) Why do you raise the devil in me by
bullying the woman like that? You oatmeal faced dog, I'd
twist your cursed head off with the greatest satisfaction. (He
puts out his hands to the sergeant) Here: handcuff me, will
you; or I'll not undertake to keep my fingers off him.
The sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to
Burgoyne for instructions.
BURGOYNE. Have you addressed profane language to the
lady, Major Swindon?
SWINDON (very angry). No, sir, certainly not. That
question should not have been put to me. I ordered the
woman to be removed, as she was disorderly; and the fellow
sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am perfectly able
to take care of myself.
RICHARD. Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel with
you.
BURGOYNE. Mr. Anderson—

SWINDON. His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. He
is an impostor.
BURGOYNE (brusquely). Nonsense, sir; you hanged
Dudgeon at Springtown.
RICHARD. It was my uncle, General.
BURGOYNE. Oh, your uncle. (To Swindon, handsomely) I
beg your pardon, Major Swindon. (Swindon acknowledges
the apology stiffly. Burgoyne turns to Richard) We are
somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your family. Well,
Mr. Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this: Who is
(reading the name from the letter) William Maindeck
Parshotter?
RICHARD. He is the Mayor of Springtown.
BURGOYNE. Is William—Maindeck and so on—a man of his
word?
RICHARD. Is he selling you anything?
BURGOYNE. No.
RICHARD. Then you may depend on him.
BURGOYNE. Thank you, Mr.—'m Dudgeon. By the way,
since you are not Mr. Anderson, do we still—eh, Major
Swindon? (meaning "do we still hang him?")
RICHARD. The arrangements are unaltered, General.
BURGOYNE. Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, Mr.
Dudgeon. Good morning, madam.
RICHARD (interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is
about to make some wild appeal, and taking her arm
resolutely). Not one word more. Come.
She looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his
determination. They are marched out by the four

soldiers: the sergeant, very sulky, walking between
Swindon and Richard, whom he watches as if he were a
dangerous animal.
BURGOYNE. Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major
Swindon: a word with you. (The officers go out. Burgoyne
waits with unruffled serenity until the last of them
disappears. Then he becomes very grave, and addresses
Swindon for the first time without his title.) Swindon: do you
know what this is (showing him the letter)?
SWINDON. What?
BURGOYNE. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of
their militia to come here and arrange terms with us.
SWINDON. Oh, they are giving in.
BURGOYNE. They add that they are sending the man who
raised Springtown last night and drove us out; so that we
may know that we are dealing with an officer of importance.
SWINDON. Pooh!
BURGOYNE. He will be fully empowered to arrange the
terms of—guess what.
SWINDON. Their surrender, I hope.
BURGOYNE. No: our evacuation of the town. They offer us
just six hours to clear out.
SWINDON. What monstrous impudence!
BURGOYNE. What shall we do, eh?
SWINDON. March on Springtown and strike a decisive blow
at once.
BURGOYNE (quietly). Hm! (Turning to the door) Come to
the adjutant's office.
SWINDON. What for?

BURGOYNE. To write out that safe-conduct. (He puts his
hand to the door knob to open it.)
SWINDON (who has not budged). General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE (returning). Sir?
SWINDON. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not
consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a
sufficient reason for our giving way.
BURGOYNE (imperturbable). Suppose I resign my
command to you, what will you do?
SWINDON. I will undertake to do what we have marched
south from Boston to do, and what General Howe has
marched north from New York to do: effect a junction at
Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces.
BURGOYNE (enigmatically). And will you wipe out our
enemies in London, too?
SWINDON. In London! What enemies?
BURGOYNE (forcibly). Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence
and Red Tape. (He holds up the dispatch and adds, with
despair in his face and voice) I have just learnt, sir, that
General Howe is still in New York.
SWINDON (thunderstruck). Good God! He has disobeyed
orders!
BURGOYNE (with sardonic calm). He has received no
orders, sir. Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch
them: he was leaving town for his holiday, I believe. To avoid
upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her American
colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga with
5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable position.
SWINDON (appalled). Impossible!
BURGOYNE (coldly). I beg your pardon!

SWINDON. I can't believe it! What will History say?
BURGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we
must send the safe-conduct. (He goes out.)
SWINDON (following distractedly). My God, my God! We
shall be wiped out.
As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place.
The gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of
evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime
as the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new
rope attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the
uprights, out of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, has been
brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who
stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. The
Websterbridge townsfolk are present in force, and in high
spirits; for the news has spread that it is the devil's disciple
and not the minister that the Continentals (so they call
Burgoyne's forces) are about to hang: consequently the
execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to its
righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place
without a struggle. There is even some fear of a
disappointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the
beadle with the ladder remains the only sign of preparation.
But at last reassuring shouts of Here they come: Here they
are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with fixed
bayonets, half British infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly
into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the
sides.
SERGEANT. Halt. Front. Dress. (The soldiers change their
column into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty
officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the
persons who find themselves inside the square out at the
corners.) Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o'
you'll get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square
there, will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin' German

to them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your
muskets: they'll understand that. GET out of it, will you? (He
comes upon Judith, standing near the gallows.) Now then:
YOU'VE no call here.
JUDITH. May I not stay? What harm am I doing?
SERGEANT. I want none of your argufying. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged that's not
your husband. And he's no better than yourself. I told my
major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and tries to
strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a lunatic. So out
of it with you, double quick.
JUDITH. Will you take these two silver dollars and let me
stay?
The sergeant, without an instant's hesitation, looks
quickly and furtively round as he shoots the money
dexterously into his pocket. Then he raises his voice in
virtuous indignation.
SERGEANT. ME take money in the execution of my duty!
Certainly not. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, to teach you to
corrupt the King's officer. I'll put you under arrest until the
execution's over. You just stand there; and don't let me see
you as much as move from that spot until you're let. (With a
swift wink at her he points to the corner of the square behind
the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, shouting)
Now then dress up and keep 'em back, will you?
Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the
townsfolk; and the sound of a military band, playing the
Dead March from Saul, is heard. The crowd becomes
quiet at once; and the sergeant and petty officers,
hurrying to the back of the square, with a few whispered
orders and some stealthy hustling cause it to open and
admit the funeral procession, which is protected from the

crowd by a double file of soldiers. First come Burgoyne
and Swindon, who, on entering the square, glance with
distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under it by
wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves on
that side. Then Mr. Brudenell, the chaplain, in his
surplice, with his prayer book open in his hand, walking
beside Richard, who is moody and disorderly. He walks
doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts
himself a little in front of it. Behind him comes the
executioner, a stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves.
Following him, two soldiers haul a light military waggon.
Finally comes the band, which posts itself at the back of
the square, and finishes the Dead March. Judith,
watching Richard painfully, steals down to the gallows,
and stands leaning against its right post. During the
conversation which follows, the two soldiers place the
cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which
point backwards. The executioner takes a set of steps
from the cart and places it ready for the prisoner to
mount. Then he climbs the tall ladder which stands
against the gallows, and cuts the string by which the
rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over
the cart, into which he steps as he descends.
RICHARD (with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell). Look
here, sir: this is no place for a man of your profession. Hadn't
you better go away?
SWINDON. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense
of decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain,
and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion.
THE CHAPLAIN (gently reproving Richard). Try to control
yourself, and submit to the divine will. (He lifts his book to
proceed with the service.)
RICHARD. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your

accomplices here (indicating Burgoyne and Swindon): I see
little divinity about them or you. You talk to me of
Christianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies.
Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (To Swindon,
more rudely) You've got up the solemnity of the occasion, as
you call it, to impress the people with your own dignity—
Handel's music and a clergyman to make murder look like
piety! Do you suppose I am going to help you? You've asked
me to choose the rope because you don't know your own
trade well enough to shoot me properly. Well, hang away and
have done with it.
SWINDON (to the chaplain). Can you do nothing with him,
Mr. Brudenell?
CHAPLAIN. I will try, sir. (Beginning to read) Man that is
born of woman hath—
RICHARD (fixing his eyes on him). "Thou shalt not kill."
The book drops in Brudenell's hands.
CHAPLAIN (confessing his embarrassment). What am I to
say, Mr. Dudgeon?
RICHARD. Let me alone, man, can't you?
BURGOYNE (with extreme urbanity). I think, Mr. Brudenell,
that as the usual professional observations seem to strike Mr.
Dudgeon as incongruous under the circumstances, you had
better omit them until—er—until Mr. Dudgeon can no longer
be inconvenienced by them. (Brudenell, with a shrug, shuts
his book and retires behind the gallows.) YOU seem in a
hurry, Mr. Dudgeon.
RICHARD (with the horror of death upon him). Do you
think this is a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for?
You've made up your mind to commit murder: well, do it and
have done with it.

BURGOYNE. Mr. Dudgeon: we are only doing this—
RICHARD. Because you're paid to do it.
SWINDON. You insolent— (He swallows his rage.)
BURGOYNE (with much charm of manner). Ah, I am really
sorry that you should think that, Mr. Dudgeon. If you knew
what my commission cost me, and what my pay is, you
would think better of me. I should be glad to part from you
on friendly terms.
RICHARD. Hark ye, General Burgoyne. If you think that I
like being hanged, you're mistaken. I don't like it; and I don't
mean to pretend that I do. And if you think I'm obliged to
you for hanging me in a gentlemanly way, you're wrong
there too. I take the whole business in devilish bad part; and
the only satisfaction I have in it is that you'll feel a good deal
meaner than I'll look when it's over. (He turns away, and is
striding to the cart when Judith advances and interposes with
her arms stretched out to him. Richard, feeling that a very
little will upset his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying)
What are you doing here? This is no place for you. (She
makes a gesture as if to touch him. He recoils impatiently.)
No: go away, go away; you'll unnerve me. Take her away,
will you?
JUDITH. Won't you bid me good-bye?
RICHARD (allowing her to take his hand). Oh good-bye,
good-bye. Now go—go—quickly. (She clings to his hand—will
not be put off with so cold a last farewell—at last, as he tries
to disengage himself, throws herself on his breast in agony.)
SWINDON (angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at
Judith's movement, has come from the back of the square to
pull her back, and stopped irresolutely on finding that he is
too late). How is this? Why is she inside the lines?
SERGEANT (guiltily). I dunno, sir. She's that artful can't

keep her away.
BURGOYNE. You were bribed.
SERGEANT (protesting). No, Sir—
SWINDON (severely). Fall back. (He obeys.)
RICHARD (imploringly to those around him, and finally to
Burgoyne, as the least stolid of them). Take her away. Do
you think I want a woman near me now?
BURGOYNE (going to Judith and taking her hand). Here,
madam: you had better keep inside the lines; but stand here
behind us; and don't look.
Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she
releases him and turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to
the cart and mounts into it. The executioner takes off his
coat and pinions him.
JUDITH (resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand
away). No: I must stay. I won't look. (She goes to the right
of the gallows. She tries to look at Richard, but turns away
with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in prayer.
Brudenell comes towards her from the back of the square.)
BURGOYNE (nodding approvingly as she kneels). Ah, quite
so. Do not disturb her, Mr. Brudenell: that will do very nicely.
(Brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, watching her
sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes his former position, and
takes out a handsome gold chronometer.) Now then, are
those preparations made? We must not detain Mr. Dudgeon.
By this time Richard's hands are bound behind him; and
the noose is round his neck. The two soldiers take the
shaft of the wagon, ready to pull it away. The
executioner, standing in the cart behind Richard, makes
a sign to the sergeant.

SERGEANT (to Burgoyne). Ready, sir.
BURGOYNE. Have you anything more to say, Mr. Dudgeon?
It wants two minutes of twelve still.
RICHARD (in the strong voice of a man who has conquered
the bitterness of death). Your watch is two minutes slow by
the town clock, which I can see from here, General. (The
town clock strikes the first stroke of twelve. Involuntarily the
people flinch at the sound, and a subdued groan breaks from
them.) Amen! my life for the world's future!
ANDERSON (shouting as he rushes into the market place).
Amen; and stop the execution. (He bursts through the line of
soldiers opposite Burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the
gallows.) I am Anthony Anderson, the man you want.
The crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears.
Judith, half rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like
one whose dearest prayer has been granted.
SWINDON. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take your
place on the gallows. Arrest him.
At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to
seize Anderson.
ANDERSON (thrusting a paper under Swindon's nose).
There's my safe-conduct, sir.
SWINDON (taken aback). Safe-conduct! Are you—!
ANDERSON (emphatically). I am. (The two soldiers take
him by the elbows.) Tell these men to take their hands off
me.
SWINDON (to the men). Let him go.
SERGEANT. Fall back.

The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a
cheer; and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a
presentiment of triumph as they see their Pastor
speaking with their enemies in the gate.
ANDERSON (exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing
his perspiring brow with his handkerchief). Thank God, I was
in time!
BURGOYNE (calm as ever, and still watch in hand). Ample
time, sir. Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging
any gentleman by an American clock. (He puts up his watch.)
ANDERSON. Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you
already, General. Now tell them to take the rope from the
neck of that American citizen.
BURGOYNE (to the executioner in the cart—very politely).
Kindly undo Mr. Dudgeon.
The executioner takes the rope from Richard's neck,
unties his hands, and helps him on with his coat.
JUDITH (stealing timidly to Anderson). Tony.
ANDERSON (putting his arm round her shoulders and
bantering her affectionately). Well what do you think of you
husband, NOW, eh?—eh??—eh???
JUDITH. I am ashamed— (She hides her face against his
breast.)
BURGOYNE (to Swindon). You look disappointed, Major
Swindon.
SWINDON. You look defeated, General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad
of it. (Richard jumps down from the cart, Brudenell offering
his hand to help him, and runs to Anderson, whose left hand
he shakes heartily, the right being occupied by Judith.) By

the way, Mr. Anderson, I do not quite understand. The safe-
conduct was for a commander of the militia. I understand
you are a— (he looks as pointedly as his good manners
permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard's coat,
and adds) a clergyman.
ANDERSON (between Judith and Richard). Sir: it is in the
hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. This foolish
young man (placing his hand on Richard's shoulder) boasted
himself the Devil's Disciple; but when the hour of trial came
to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer and be
faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent minister of
the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, I
found that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that
my place was amid the thunder of the captains and the
shouting. So I am starting life at fifty as Captain Anthony
Anderson of the Springtown militia; and the Devil's Disciple
here will start presently as the Reverend Richard Dudgeon,
and wag his pow in my old pulpit, and give good advice to
this silly sentimental little wife of mine (putting his other
hand on her shoulder. She steals a glance at Richard to see
how the prospect pleases him). Your mother told me,
Richard, that I should never have chosen Judith if I'd been
born for the ministry. I am afraid she was right; so, by your
leave, you may keep my coat and I'll keep yours.
RICHARD. Minister—I should say Captain. I have behaved
like a fool.
JUDITH. Like a hero.
RICHARD. Much the same thing, perhaps. (With some
bitterness towards himself) But no: if I had been any good, I
should have done for you what you did for me, instead of
making a vain sacrifice.
ANDERSON. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make a
world—saints as well as soldiers. (Turning to Burgoyne) And

now, General, time presses; and America is in a hurry. Have
you realized that though you may occupy towns and win
battles, you cannot conquer a nation?
BURGOYNE. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot
have an aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my
quarters.
ANDERSON. At your service, sir. (To Richard) See Judith
home for me, will you, my boy? (He hands her over to him.)
Now General. (He goes busily up the market place towards
the Town Hall, Leaving Judith and Richard together.
Burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and
turns to Richard.)
BURGOYNE. Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be glad
to see you at lunch at half-past one. (He pauses a moment,
and adds, with politely veiled slyness) Bring Mrs. Anderson, if
she will be so good. (To Swindon, who is fuming) Take it
quietly, Major Swindon: your friend the British soldier can
stand up to anything except the British War Office. (He
follows Anderson.)
SERGEANT (to Swindon). What orders, sir?
SWINDON (savagely). Orders! What use are orders now?
There's no army. Back to quarters; and be d— (He turns on
his heel and goes.)
SERGEANT (pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea
of defeat). 'Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and show
'em you don't care a damn for 'em. Slope arms! Fours!
Wheel! Quick march!
The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band
strikes up British Grenadiers; and the sergeant,
Brudenell, and the English troops march off defiantly to
their quarters. The townsfolk press in behind, and follow
them up the market, jeering at them; and the town

band, a very primitive affair, brings up the rear, playing
Yankee Doodle. Essie, who comes in with them, runs to
Richard.
ESSIE. Oh, Dick!
RICHARD (good-humoredly, but wilfully). Now, now: come,
come! I don't mind being hanged; but I will not be cried
over.
ESSIE. No, I promise. I'll be good. (She tries to restrain her
tears, but cannot.) I—I want to see where the soldiers are
going to. (She goes a little way up the market, pretending to
look after the crowd.)
JUDITH. Promise me you will never tell him.
RICHARD. Don't be afraid.
They shake hands on it.
ESSIE (calling to them). They're coming back. They want
you.
Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again
in wild enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on
their shoulders, cheering him.
CURTAIN.

Notes
BURGOYNE
General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for
the first time (as far as I am aware) on the English stage, is
not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as
it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. His objection to
profane swearing is not borrowed from Mr. Gilbert's H. M. S.
Pinafore: it is taken from the Code of Instructions drawn up
by himself for his officers when he introduced Light Horse
into the English army. His opinion that English soldiers should
be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome to
the military authorities of his time, when nothing was
thought of ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be
to those modern victims of the flagellation neurosis who are
so anxious to revive that discredited sport. His military
reports are very clever as criticisms, and are humane and
enlightened within certain aristocratic limits, best illustrated
perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious,
that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other
ground than that of family influence. As a parliamentary
candidate, Burgoyne took our common expression "fighting
an election" so very literally that he led his supporters to the
poll at Preston in 1768 with a loaded pistol in each hand, and
won the seat, though he was fined 1,000 pounds, and
denounced by Junius, for the pistols.
It is only within quite recent years that any general
recognition has become possible for the feeling that led
Burgoyne, a professed enemy of oppression in India and
elsewhere, to accept his American command when so many
other officers threw up their commissions rather than serve
in a civil war against the Colonies. His biographer De
Fonblanque, writing in 1876, evidently regarded his position

as indefensible. Nowadays, it is sufficient to say that
Burgoyne was an Imperialist. He sympathized with the
colonists; but when they proposed as a remedy the
disruption of the Empire, he regarded that as a step
backward in civilization. As he put it to the House of
Commons, "while we remember that we are contending
against brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember
that we are contending in this crisis for the fate of the British
Empire." Eighty-four years after his defeat, his republican
conquerors themselves engaged in a civil war for the
integrity of their Union. In 1886 the Whigs who represented
the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American Independence in
English politics, abandoned Gladstone and made common
cause with their political opponents in defence of the Union
between England and Ireland. Only the other day England
sent 200,000 men into the field south of the equator to fight
out the question whether South Africa should develop as a
Federation of British Colonies or as an independent
Afrikander United States. In all these cases the Unionists who
were detached from their parties were called renegades, as
Burgoyne was. That, of course, is only one of the unfortunate
consequences of the fact that mankind, being for the most
part incapable of politics, accepts vituperation as an easy and
congenial substitute. Whether Burgoyne or Washington,
Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, Mr. Chamberlain or Mr.
Leonard Courtney was in the right will never be settled,
because it will never be possible to prove that the
government of the victor has been better for mankind than
the government of the vanquished would have been. It is
true that the victors have no doubt on the point; but to the
dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only part of the human
comedy. The American Unionist is often a Separatist as to
Ireland; the English Unionist often sympathizes with the
Polish Home Ruler; and both English and American Unionists
are apt to be Disruptionists as regards that Imperial Ancient
of Days, the Empire of China. Both are Unionists concerning

Canada, but with a difference as to the precise application to
it of the Monroe doctrine. As for me, the dramatist, I smile,
and lead the conversation back to Burgoyne.
Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga made him that
occasionally necessary part of our British system, a
scapegoat. The explanation of his defeat given in the play is
founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from
Fitzmaurice's Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: "Lord George
Germain, having among other peculiarities a particular dislike
to be put out of his way on any occasion, had arranged to
call at his office on his way to the country to sign the
dispatches; but as those addressed to Howe had not been
faircopied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his
projected visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were
forgotten on his return home." These were the dispatches
instructing Sir William Howe, who was in New York, to effect
a junction at Albany with Burgoyne, who had marched from
Boston for that purpose. Burgoyne got as far as Saratoga,
where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was hopelessly
outnumbered, and his officers picked off, Boer fashion, by
the American farmer-sharpshooters. His own collar was
pierced by a bullet. The publicity of his defeat, however, was
more than compensated at home by the fact that Lord
George's trip to Kent had not been interfered with, and that
nobody knew about the oversight of the dispatch. The policy
of the English Government and Court for the next two years
was simply concealment of Germain's neglect. Burgoyne's
demand for an inquiry was defeated in the House of
Commons by the court party; and when he at last obtained a
committee, the king got rid of it by a prorogation. When
Burgoyne realized what had happened about the instructions
to Howe (the scene in which I have represented him as
learning it before Saratoga is not historical: the truth did not
dawn on him until many months afterwards) the king actually
took advantage of his being a prisoner of war in England on

parole, and ordered him to return to America into captivity.
Burgoyne immediately resigned all his appointments; and
this practically closed his military career, though he was
afterwards made Commander of the Forces in Ireland for the
purpose of banishing him from parliament.
The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the English
sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of the
aristocracy are at stake. Mr. Frank Harris said, after the
disastrous battle of Modder River, that the English, having
lost America a century ago because they preferred George
III, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day because
they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones.
Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a
critical period of the War of Independence, said that the
Lords could not be expected to lose their pheasant shooting
for the sake of America. In the working class, which, like all
classes, has its own official aristocracy, there is the same
reluctance to discredit an institution or to "do a man out of
his job." At bottom, of course, this apparently shameless
sacrifice of great public interests to petty personal ones, is
simply the preference of the ordinary man for the things he
can feel and understand to the things that are beyond his
capacity. It is stupidity, not dishonesty.
Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. Not
only was he thrown over, in spite of his high character and
distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who had
actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct in the
field fifteen years before; but his peculiar critical
temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic,
and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and
humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by
stupid people because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long
after his death, Thackeray, who had an intense sense of
human character, but was typically stupid in valuing and
interpreting it, instinctively sneered at him and exulted in his

defeat. That sneer represents the common English attitude
towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which the
critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for both
temperaments have their genius) "muddles through all
right," is popular in England. But Burgoyne's failure was not
the work of his own temperament, but of the stupid
temperament. What man could do under the circumstances
he did, and did handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his ideal
empire was dismembered, not through his own misconduct,
but because Sir George Germain overestimated the
importance of his Kentish holiday, and underestimated the
difficulty of conquering those remote and inferior creatures,
the colonists. And King George and the rest of the nation
agreed, on the whole, with Germain. It is a significant point
that in America, where Burgoyne was an enemy and an
invader, he was admired and praised. The climate there is no
doubt more favorable to intellectual vivacity.
I have described Burgoyne's temperament as rather
histrionic; and the reader will have observed that the
Burgoyne of the Devil's Disciple is a man who plays his part
in life, and makes all its points, in the manner of a born high
comedian. If he had been killed at Saratoga, with all his
comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning As You Like It
into a Beggar's Opera unconceived, I should still have
painted the same picture of him on the strength of his reply
to the articles of capitulation proposed to him by his
American conqueror General Gates. Here they are:
PROPOSITION.
1. General Burgoyne's army being reduced by repeated
defeats, by desertion, sickness, etc., their provisions
exhausted, their military horses, tents and baggage taken or
destroyed, their retreat cut off, and their camp invested, they
can only be allowed to surrender as prisoners of war.

ANSWER.
1. Lieut.-General Burgoyne's army, however reduced, will
never admit that their retreat is cut off while they have arms
in their hands.
PROPOSITION.
2. The officers and soldiers may keep the baggage
belonging to them. The generals of the United States never
permit individuals to be pillaged.
ANSWER.
2. Noted.
PROPOSITION.
3. The troops under his Excellency General Burgoyne will
be conducted by the most convenient route to New England,
marching by easy marches, and sufficiently provided for by
the way.
ANSWER.
3. Agreed.
PROPOSITION.
4. The officers will be admitted on parole and will be
treated with the liberality customary in such cases, so long as
they, by proper behaviour, continue to deserve it; but those
who are apprehended having broke their parole, as some
British officers have done, must expect to be close confined.

ANSWER.
4. There being no officer in this army, under, or capable of
being under, the description of breaking parole, this article
needs no answer.
PROPOSITION.
5. All public stores, artillery, arms, ammunition, carriages,
horses, etc., etc., must be delivered to commissaries
appointed to receive them.
ANSWER.
5. All public stores may be delivered, arms excepted.
PROPOSITION.
6. These terms being agreed to and signed, the troops
under his Excellency's, General Burgoyne's command, may
be drawn up in their encampments, where they will be
ordered to ground their arms, and may thereupon be
marched to the river-side on their way to Bennington.
ANSWER.
6. This article is inadmissible in any extremity. Sooner than
this army will consent to ground their arms in their
encampments, they will rush on the enemy determined to
take no quarter.
And, later on, "If General Gates does not mean to recede
from the 6th article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to
a man proceed to any act of desperation sooner than submit

to that article."
Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add that
he had his own way; and that when the actual ceremony of
surrender came, he would have played poor General Gates
off the stage, had not that commander risen to the occasion
by handing him back his sword.
In connection with the reference to Indians with scalping
knives, who, with the troops hired from Germany, made up
about half Burgoyne's force, I may mention that Burgoyne
offered two of them a reward to guide a Miss McCrea,
betrothed to one of the English officers, into the English lines.
The two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more
sensitive of them, as a protest against the unfairness of the
other, tomahawked the young lady. The usual retaliations
were proposed under the popular titles of justice and so
forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would certainly have
followed suit by a massacre of whites on the Canadian
frontier, Burgoyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the
intense disgust of indignant Christendom.
BRUDENELL
Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery chaplain
of that name distinguished himself at Saratoga by reading
the burial service over Major Fraser under fire, and by a quite
readable adventure, chronicled by Burgoyne, with Lady
Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet's husband achieved the
remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his adversary, in
a duel. He overbalanced himself in the heat of his
swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a pebble. Lady
Harriet then married the warrior chaplain, who, like Anthony
Anderson in the play, seems to have mistaken his natural
profession.
The rest of the Devil's Disciple may have actually occurred,

like most stories invented by dramatists; but I cannot
produce any documents. Major Swindon's name is invented;
but the man, of course, is real. There are dozens of him
extant to this day.

the_devils_disciple.pdf

More Related Content

Similar to the_devils_disciple.pdf (20)

More from rohit bhoyar (20)

Recently uploaded (20)

the_devils_disciple.pdf