that makes or mars you preachers. Dost hear the music? A day hath
passed since thou wast in the garden. They are marching even now to
the market place.

_Dimsdell._ What shall I do? [_Aloud, but to himself._

_Roger._ Do? Stay here and settle our account; or else go on and
publish thyself as what thou art--a hypocrite.

_Dimsdell._ I see it now!--Ah! Satan! Satan!--thou wouldst affright
my soul and make me lose my well earned honors. Why, Roger Prynne is
dead--dead. 'Twas told on good report two years ago. And now--oh!
try it if thou wilt--I'll have thee burnt, burnt--burnt at the
stake, if thou accusest me! Who would believe thee? Stand aside, I
say! Let me pass!

_Roger._ How came the stigma on thy breast?

_Dimsdell._ Thou knowest!--Make way, I tell thee!--Thou didst place
it there!--Make way!

_They struggle. Roger interposes the chair between himself and
Dimsdell. Finally, Dimsdell wrenches the chair from Roger, flings it
aside, and, grappling him, chokes Roger to death._

_Dimsdell._ [_Panting_] A man! A man! A man!--Dead! dead!
dead!--Nay--like a man!--Like a dead man!--A trick!--A devilish
trick!--Did he not come in angel form--and then as Doctor
Chillingworth--and then as Roger Prynne--and now,--and now, as a
dead body?

_Spurning Roger with his foot._

O, Devil, I'll avoid thee yet!--I'll confess my crime and thus
unslip the noose about my soul!

_Hurriedly prepares to depart._

He said we'd meet again! We have, and 'tis the last time! [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_Plain curtain, down. Music. Music ceases; subdued sounds
as of a multitude back of curtain. Then the voice of Dimsdell rises
as quiet returns._

_Dimsdell._ And now, good friends, Electors and Elected,
Although my speech hath run a lengthened course,
And what I purposed hath been said in full,
There's more comes to me now.
What is our purpose and our destiny?

_Curtain rises rapidly, disclosing stage set as in Act I, Scene III.
Dimsdell upon a rostrum on church steps. Militia standing at rest.
Citizens and officials in gala attire._

We call us English, Anglo-Saxon;
And from the Old we come to build the New,
The equal England of our expectation.
Here in the wilderness, the first small germs
Of man's long-promised freedom find their soil;
Here hidden will they rot a little while;
Anon, the sprouts will break our troubled land,
Thrust forth the first red blades, and thence grow on,