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.)