he point whether I would take my neck out of
the noose and put another man's into it, I could not do it. I don't
know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; but I could not and
I cannot. I have been brought up standing by the law of my own nature;
and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. (She has slowly
raised her head and is now looking full at him.) I should have done the
same for any other man in the town, or any other man's wife. (Releasing
her.) Do you understand that?

JUDITH. Yes: you mean that you do not love me.

RICHARD (revolted--with fierce contempt). Is that all it means to you?

JUDITH. What more--what worse--can it mean to me?

(The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her heart.) Oh, one
moment more. (She throws herself on her knees.) I pray to you--

RICHARD. Hush! (Calling) Come in. (The sergeant unlocks the door and
opens it. The guard is with him.)

SERGEANT (coming in). Time's up, sir.

RICHARD. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (He attempts to raise
her.)

JUDITH (clinging to him). Only one thing more--I entreat, I implore
you. Let me be present in the court. I have seen Major Swindon: he said
I should be allowed if you asked it. You will ask it. It is my last
request: I shall never ask you anything again. (She clasps his knee.) I
beg and pray it of you.

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 hast