Katherine.  At last!

     The distant hum in the street is rising steadily.  But sir John,
     after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper,
     stares dumbly at the floor.

Katherine. [Suddenly conscious of his gravity] Father!

Sir John.  There is other news.

Katherine.  One of the boys?  Hubert?

     [Sir John bows his head.]

Katherine.  Killed?

     [Sir John again bows his head.]

Katherine.  The dream! [She covers her face] Poor Helen!

     They stand for a few seconds silent, then sir John raises his
     head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek.

Sir John. [Huskily] Whom the gods love——­

Katherine.  Hubert!

Sir John.  And hulks like me go on living!

Katherine.  Dear Dad!

Sir John.  But we shall drive the ruffians now!  We shall break them. 
Stephen back?

Katherine.  Last night.

Sir John.  Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last? [Katherine shakes her head] Not?

     [Then, seeing that Katherine is quivering with emotion, he
     strokes her hand.]

Sir John.  My dear!  Death is in many houses!

Katherine.  I must go to Helen.  Tell Stephen, Father.  I can’t.

Sir John.  If you wish, child.

     [She goes out, leaving sir John to his grave, puzzled grief, and
     in a few seconds more comes in.]

More.  Yes, Sir John.  You wanted me?

Sir John.  Hubert is killed.

More.  Hubert!

Sir John.  By these—­whom you uphold.  Katherine asked me to let you know.  She’s gone to Helen.  I understand you only came back last night from your——­No word I can use would give what I feel about that.  I don’t know how things stand now between you and Katherine; but I tell you this, Stephen:  you’ve tried her these last two months beyond what any woman ought to bear!

     [More makes a gesture of pain.]

Sir John.  When you chose your course——­

More.  Chose!

Sir John.  You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her. 
You knew this might come.  It may come again with another of my sons.

More.  I would willingly change places with any one of them.

Sir John.  Yes—­I can believe in your unhappiness.  I cannot conceive of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country.  If I could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price—­no, nor all my sons.  ’Pro patri mori’—­My boy, at all events, is happy!