to
disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door._) Out, out,
brief candle! That man is doomed.

DROP

ACT III

_As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark and empty. Enter MACAIRE,
L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about_

SCENE I

MACAIRE, BERTRAND

MACAIRE (_calling off_). S'st!

BERTRAND (_entering L.U.E._). It's creeping dark.

MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job.

BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm cold; my very hair's cold.

MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.

BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it's a horror. You'll not kill him; let's have no
bloodshed.

MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you
have experience: up that stair and pick me the lock of that man's door.
Pick me the lock of that man's door.

BERTRAND. May I take the light?

MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (_BERTRAND mounts the stairs and is seen
picking the lock of Number Thirteen._) The earth spins eastward, and the
day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be
afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet half an hour of night,
the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of
the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of
honest people, puts off his nightcap, throws up his window, stares out
of house--and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour
and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool--my fool--would
but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could
intervene, kill both, by heaven--both!--cry murder with the best, and at
one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead----

BERTRAND (_from above_). S'st, Macaire.

MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (_BERTRAND descends._) Sit
down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not
beyond--the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble
like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the
creak of a man's foot, hist! (_Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve._)
What is a knife? A plain man's sword.

BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife.

MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (_He goes upstairs and enters Number
Thirteen._)

BERTRAND. He's in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night!
Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The
night's as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear
him; and then--O Macaire, Macaire