ANNA--[With a shudder.] Say, you're crazier than I thought. I never dreamt you'd go that far. CHRIS--[Quickly.] Ay don't. Ay gat better sense right avay. Ay don't never buy bullets even. It ain't his fault, Ay know. ANNA--[Still suspicious of him.] Well, I'll take care of this for a while, loaded or not. [She puts it in the drawer of table and closes the drawer.] CHRIS--[Placatingly.] Throw it overboard if you vant. Ay don't care, [Then after a pause.] Py golly, Ay tank Ay go lie down. Ay feel sick. [ANNA takes a magazine from the table. CHRIS hesitates by her chair.] Ve talk again before Ay go, yes? ANNA--[Dully.] Where's this ship going to? CHRIS--Cape Town. Dat's in South Africa. She's British steamer called Londonderry. [He stands hesitatingly--finally blurts out.] Anna--you forgive me sure? ANNA--[Wearily.] Sure I do. You ain't to blame. You're yust--what you are--like me. CHRIS--[Pleadingly.] Den--you lat me kiss you again once? ANNA--[Raising her face--forcing a wan smile.] Sure. No hard feelings. CHRIS--[Kisses her--brokenly.] Anna lilla! Ay--[He fights for words to express himself, but finds none--miserably--with a sob.] Ay can't say it. Good-night, Anna. ANNA--Good-night. [He picks up the can of beer and goes slowly into the room on left, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk forward dejectedly. He closes the door after him. ANNA turns over the pages of the magazine, trying desperately to banish her thoughts by looking at the pictures. This fails to distract her, and flinging the magazine back on the table, she springs to her feet and walks about the cabin distractedly, clenching and unclenching her hands. She speaks aloud to herself in a tense, trembling voice.] Gawd, I can't stand this much longer! What am I waiting for anyway?--like a damn fool! [She laughs helplessly, then checks herself abruptly, as she hears the sound of heavy footsteps on the deck outside. She appears to recognize these and her face lights up with joy. She gasps:] Mat! [A strange terror seems suddenly to seize her. She rushes to the table, takes the revolver out of drawer and crouches down in the corner, left, behind the cupboard. A moment later the door is flung open and MAT BURKE appears in the doorway. He is in bad shape--his clothes torn and dirty, covered with sawdust as if he had been grovelling or sleeping on barroom floors. There is a red bruise on his forehead over one of his eyes, another over one cheekbone, his knuckles are skinned and raw--plain evidence of the fighting he has been through on his "bat." His eyes are bloodshot and heavy-lidded, his face has a bloated look. But beyond these appearances--the results of heavy drinking--there is an expression in his eyes of wild mental turmoil, of impotent animal rage baffled by its own abject misery.]