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.