MARSH (looking out the window). Nay, not so bitter. The window-panes are clear and unfrosted. The twilight gathers quickly. The streets are gray, and there's scarce a gleam in the darkness of the harbor. PENROSE (as Marsh leaves window for fire). Not e'en a light in the rigging o' Francis Rotch's ships? The sailors must be supping at the taverns. They're weary now of staying harborbound. There'll be rejoicing when the tax is paid, and the stiff- necked Yankees bring the tea to land. MARSH. There be some who call themselves patriots, and swear they'll never pay it. PENROSE (sipping). Not pay it? They'll defy us? Pooh! We could bring them to time with a twist of the wrist did we but wish to! (Looking with approval at his own apparel.) A mere handful of men with scarcely any lace for their ruffles, and tarnished buckles for their shoes! _They_ defy _us_? You're jesting! No, no, my dear Sidney! In spite of all their protests and town meetings they'll be glad enough to give in at the end, and to pay the tax right speedily. For, mark you, in spite of all the rumors of defiance that we've heard, the town to-night lies as quiet as a church. MARSH. Aye, so it does. PENROSE (rising). Too quiet for my spirits. Let's seek another tavern where there's more revelry than there is here. MARSH (draining his glass). We'll not find shrewder lemon punch at any. On my way back I'll have another glass. [Tosses money at Rigby, who lets it lie where it falls. He shakes a clenched hand after the retreating figures of the two lieutenants, and then goes back to lighting his candles on the mantelshelf. Marsh and Penrose exeunt. After a moment there comes from without the sound of a halting step, the door is opened, and Richard Stockton enters, a lad with the eyes of a dreamer, and the bearing of a doer of deeds. Thomas Rigby, at sound of the entering step, turns, taper in hand. RICHARD (coming forward). 'Tis only I. Go on with the candles, landlord. RIGBY (joyfully). Only you, Dick Stockton! Zounds! There's none whom I'd sooner see! Quick! Tell me the news! These be stirring days, and here am I tied to this tavern-room, and afraid to leave it lest those brawling red-coats loot it while I'm gone. To leave a tavern-room empty is to invite disaster--and yet--what patriot should bide indoors on days like these! 'Faith! I'm torn 'twixt necessities! Come! Your news. Sit by the fire and out with it! What's to become of the tea we won't pay taxes on? RICHARD. Give me breath and I'll tell you! There's news to make your blood boil. I've been at the town meeting in the Old South Church all day. What think you--! The governor at Milton has refused a pass to Francis Rotch, and the tea ships cannot leave the harbor. The British have sworn they'll make us pay the tax or wring our scurvy necks. RIGBY (outraged). Zounds! There are necks I'd like to have the wringing of! What else, lad, what else?