BRODIE. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you’ve been near it this time—near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o’ night. Ay, the good old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. (_He lights the candles_.) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after all? (_He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table_.) Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the dock? If it does! You’ve a tongue, and you’ve a head, and you’ve an alibi; and your alibi will stand. (_He takes off his coat_, _takes out the dagger_, _and with a gesture of striking_) Home! He fell without a sob. ‘He breaketh them against the bosses of his buckler!’ (_Lays the dagger on the table_.) Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that’s your life! . . . your alibi, your alibi. (_He takes up a candle and turns towards the door_.) O! . . . Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open! SCENE V BRODIE, MARY. BRODIE. Did you open the door? MARY. I did. BRODIE. You . . . you opened the door? MARY. I did open it BRODIE. Were you . . . alone? MARY. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor. BRODIE. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very true. Then it’s all over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor? MARY. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been? BRODIE. Your father is dead. O yes! He’s dead, is he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right . . . How did you open the door? It’s strange. I bolted it. MARY. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor forced it. He had to, had he not? BRODIE. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He forced it? He? MARY. We did it for the best; it was I who did it . . . I, your own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You have not been in any harm, any danger? BRODIE. Danger? O my young lady, you have taken care of that. It’s not danger now, it’s death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! (_Clutching the table_. _Then_, _recovering as from a dream_.) Death? Did you say my father was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old father! Is he dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was! MARY. Dearest, he is in heaven. BRODIE. Did he suffer? MARY. He died like a child. Your name . . . it was his last. BRODIE. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He knows; he sees us now . . . sees me! Ay, and sees you, left how lonely!