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.