Europa. Too soon, too soon! Oh, Tristram!--Pardon, madam--Applause has whirled St. James's to the skies. He stands entranced, With face uplifted like a seraph, pealing Material music, from his prologue worlds Away. Into the nebula! The house Sits up and holds its breath. [Re-enter Abbot.] Abbot. Sir Tristram, come! In Heaven's name come! St. James's spreads himself Worse than we ever heard him; miles beyond The limits of the play! He must be stopped! [Re-enter Salerne.] Salerne. You've told him? Abbot. Yes. The Bishop's broken loose, Discoursing Matter like a thunderstorm; A thick brocade and silvery web of rain, With crash of bells and bolts, while through the loom A random shuttle of golden lightning plays-- As Warwick might have said. Salerne. Amenity To what is happening! "All is Matter, all," The Bishop cried, when from the gallery dropped A question like a bomb, "Hi! What price God?" Sir T. Olympus felt itself neglected. Well? Salerne. Then all the blasphemy we've heard him speak Came trolling forth, "The shutters of the mind; "A fire-proof curtain: ghastly cul-de-sac; "A last excuse; sublime taboo; a tip; "A patent medicine: an accepted lie." "Atheist!" they cry, "blasphemer!" scourging him To reckless opposition. There he stands At every lull in the tempest knelling out His dogma like a tocsin. What to do Surpasses me! [Enter Mark Belfry.] Belfry. God! Crowds believe in God! My cats, Sir Tristram, what a fool you are! A fighting parson crossed the floats and all The stalls came after bellowing--men I mean. The pittites followed and the gallery boys Are breaking forms and shying splinters. "God! "For God!" they roar, parson and moneylender, Broker and banker, counterjumper, peer. The women, too; they all believe in God; Duchesses, milliners, wives and prostitutes, They scream for God. God pays! you bet! God pays! They'll wreck your theatre, Tristram; but I'll buy it! The Grosvenor? Yes; in ruins! I want it. Name Your figure, Tristram. Sir T. Where's St. James's? Belfry. Dead, I guess, by this time; trampled into pulp. [Lady Sumner sinks fainting on the couch unnoticed by the others.] Sir T. My Gervase! God forbid! Abbot, Salerne, Darken the theatre. Let the orchestra Strike up a blaring march. We'll clear the stage, And play St. James's play. Come after me! Belfry. Cash, Tristram, cash! You know you're ruined. Name Your price. I want the Grosvenor Theatre--and I'll---- [Sir Tristram goes out, followed by everybody except Lady Sumner.] [Enter Warwick Groom.] Groom. Martha! To meet you here! ... Sleeping? A swoon! [He raises her to a sitting posture, and she begins to revive. As she breathes with difficulty he unfastens her cloak, and finds her dressed like a boy.] Lady S. Oh, Warwick, are we dead? My throat is parched Enough for hell.