Ruth. There always will be factories. Martin. Yes? So he said last night. But we know better. Ruth. There will, there will. They'll build others, and while they're building you'll be starving, and when they're built, do you think there'll be work for you or my father or any man who lifts a hand to-night? You'll all be hanged or rotting in some gaol, and wages for the rest lower than ever to pay them out for the doings of this night. Don't do it, Martin. Leave Guy to me. I'll manage him, but I must bide my time. Martin. And meantime we must live a living death. A bullet's better, Ruth. Ruth. Oh, maybe better for the few they hit. Death's not important. Think of the others who'll live on. Don't be selfish, Martin. Martin. Selfish! I'm doing all for others. I don't care for myself. Ruth. You do. You care to be the leader. You care for your pride, the pride that won't let you draw back because you dare not seem to have an afterthought, the pride that's going to strew that valley with the ruined lives of men and corpses of the dead. Martin. I can't draw back now. It's too late, Ruth. Ruth. It's never too late. (_Suddenly terrified._) You _are_ their leader, Martin? They won't do anything without your word? Martin. I am their leader, Ruth. To-night's plan is mine. Ruth. Then so long as you stay here nothing can happen. Martin. I shan't stay long. Ruth. You will. I've got you and I mean to keep you here. Thank God, I came. Martin. You've come, but I've told you it's too late now. Ruth. Oh, no, it's not. You can't deceive me, Martin. I know this is the meeting-place. I heard you all say so last night. The moors below the quarry. Are the men there, Martin? Martin. There are men there. Listen. (_Faintly, the strains of the Marseillaise are heard from below l., and with them the barking of dogs._) The song that Henri Callard brought from France and made into an English song to put the spirit of a revolution into us. The song of life and hope. Ruth. No, Martin, the song of death. Martin. Perhaps it is, for Barlow's bullies at the factory. Ruth. Martin, don't go. Don't give the word. For my sake, Martin. Martin. The song is calling. Ruth. Are we English to be French and lose our senses for a song? Is all that you and I have said and done to go for naught? Martin. Ruth, tell the truth Ruth. The truth? Martin. Is it you and I or you and that other? Ruth. Other? Martin. You know whom I mean. Guy Barlow. Ruth. I love him, Martin. Martin. At last! The truth.