The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. StevensonStevenson, Robert Louis
General
The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Drama
* * * * *
DROP
ACT III
SCENE I
MACAIRE, BERTRAND
_As the curtain rises_, _the stage is dark and empty_. _Enter_ MACAIRE,
_L. U. E._, _with lantern_. _He looks about_
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 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 night-cap, 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_.)
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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