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 of 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?