_Interior of Matthew Butterworth's cottage. The room has three doors, one leading directly outside, one to the lean-to shed which holds the hand-loom, the third to the stairs. The cottage is that of a prosperous artisan of 1820, and the general standard of comfort little higher than that of a modern slum. The room is in darkness and through the door is heard the monotonous clickety-clackety of a handloom. A brisk knock is heard at the front door, and as Mary Butterworth opens the door l., carrying a dip candle in an iron candlestick, the sound of the loom increases. She crosses, leaving candle on table and opens the front door. Outside are Joseph Healey, Martin Kelsall and Henri Callard._ _Mary is fifty, dressed in a dark dress of linsey woolsey, with neckerchief of indigo blue printed cotton over her shoulders and a full apron of blue-and-white check round her waist. The men who enter are all obviously poorer. Joe Healey, the oldest of them, for instance, hopes in vain by buttoning high his waistcoat to hide the absence of a shirt. All wear clogs, breeches and coats more or less ragged and patched. Martin is twenty-four, thin to emaciation, but handsome and fervent. Henri carries himself well, wears his rags gallantly and his clothes are lighter coloured._ ***** Joe (_as Mary opens door_). Is Matthew in, Mrs. Butterworth? Mary (_without standing from door_). Yes. You'll hear his loom if you hearken. Joe. It's a sound that isn't often heard outside the factory nowadays. Mary. It's one that isn't often hushed in here. Matthew's busy. Henri (_half entering. Mary gives back_). Too busy to see us, Madame Butterworth? Joe (_entering and speaking importantly_). Tell him the 'Friends of the People are here to see him on the people's business. (_Henri and Martin enter, Martin closing the door._) Mary (_raising the candle to their faces_). I know you. I know you all. You, Joe Healey and young Martin Kendall, and you--you're the Frenchman. Henri (_bowing_). I am the Frenchman, madame. Mary (_replacing the candle, disgustedly_). Radicals, the three of you. Joe (_reprovingly_). We are Friends of the People. Mary. Yes. Friends of yourselves. Joe. Yes, of ourselves and of you and of Matthew there. We are the people. Mary (_militantly_). You're Radicals. And my Matthew's not a redcap like that Frenchie there that's fled his country to come disturbing quiet English folk with his nonsense. Henri. I left my country when the Bourbons entered it again. (_Rhetorically._) The blood I'd shed for freedom---- Joe (_interrupting_). We'll talk to Matthew about all that. Mary (_standing, barring the door_). You will not talk to Matthew. I'll not have my man made a Radical, and run his head into a noose for the sake of---- Martin (_quietly_). For the sake of freedom. Mary. We're free enough.