quickly). Why do you laugh?

RICHARD. I was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would
take us for man and wife.

JUDITH (taking offence). You mean, I suppose, that you are more my age
than he is.

RICHARD (staring at this unexpected turn). I never thought of such a
thing. (Sardonic again.) I see there is another side to domestic joy.

JUDITH (angrily). I would rather have a husband whom everybody respects
than--than--

RICHARD. Than the devil's disciple. You are right; but I daresay your
love helps him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me to be a bad
one.

JUDITH. My husband has been very good to you. He has forgiven you for
insulting him, and is trying to save you. Can you not forgive him for
being so much better than you are? How dare you belittle him by putting
yourself in his place?

RICHARD. Did I?

JUDITH. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came in they would take
us for man and-- (she stops, terror-stricken, as a squad of soldiers
tramps past the window) The English soldiers! Oh, what do they--

RICHARD (listening). Sh!

A VOICE (outside). Halt! Four outside: two in with me.

Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at Richard,
who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his tea when the
latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English sergeant walks into
the room with two privates, who post themselves at the door. He comes
promptly to the table between them.

THE SERGEANT. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! Anthony Anderson: I
arrest you in King George's name as a rebel.

JUDITH (pointing at Richard). But that is not-- (He looks up quickly at
her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth hastily with the hand she
has raised to indicate him, and stands staring affrightedly.)

THE SERGEANT. Come, Parson; put your coat on and come along.

RICHARD. Yes: I'll come. (He rises and takes a step towards his own
coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back to the sergeant,
moves his gaze slowly round the room without turning his head until he
sees Anderson's black coat hanging up on the press. He goes composedly
to it; takes it down; and puts it on. The idea of himself as a parson
tickles him: he looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then
smiles slyly at Judith, whose white face shows him that what she is
painfully struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its
horror. He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pa