The Third Scene - Page 2

to you; for God knows we get but
little to drink.

EDSTASTON [irresolutely]. But I can't take these valuable things.
By Jiminy, though, they're beautiful! Look at them, Claire.

As he is taking the pistols the kneeling Sergeant suddenly drops
them; flings himself forward; and embraces Edstaston's hips to
prevent him from drawing his own pistols from his boots.

THE SERGEANT. Lay hold of him there. Pin his arms. I have his
pistols. [The soldiers seize Edstaston.]

EDSTASTON. Ah, would you, damn you! [He drives his knee into the
Sergeant's epigastrium, and struggles furiously with his
captors.]

THE SERGEANT [rolling on the ground, gasping and groaning]. Owgh!
Murder! Holy Nicholas! Owwwgh!

CLAIRE. Help! help! They are killing Charles. Help!

NARYSHKIN [seizing her and clapping his hand over her mouth]. Tie
him neck and crop. Ten thousand blows of the stick if you let him
go. [Claire twists herself loose: turns on him: and cuffs him
furiously.] Yow--ow! Have mercy, Little Mother.

CLAIRE. You wretch! Help! Help! Police! We are being murdered.
Help!

The Sergeant, who has risen, comes to Naryshkin's rescue, and
grasps Claire's hands, enabling Naryshkin to gag her again. By
this time Edstaston and his captors are all rolling on the ground
together. They get Edstaston on his back and fasten his wrists
together behind his knees. Next they put a broad strap round his
ribs. Finally they pass a pole through this breast strap and
through the waist strap and lift him by it, helplessly trussed
up, to carry him of. Meanwhile he is by no means suffering in
silence.

EDSTASTON [gasping]. You shall hear more of this. Damn you, will
you untie me? I will complain to the ambassador. I will write to
the Gazette. England will blow your trumpery little fleet out of
the water and sweep your tinpot army into Siberia for this. Will
you let me go? Damn you! Curse you! What the devil do you mean by
it? I'll--I'll--I'll-- [he is carried out of hearing].

NARYSHKIN [snatching his hands from Claire's face with a scream,
and shaking his finger frantically]. Agh! [The Sergeant, amazed,
lets go her hands.] She has bitten me, the little vixen.

CLAIRE [spitting and wiping her mouth disgustedly]. How dare you
put your dirty paws on my mouth? Ugh! Psha!

THE SERGEANT. Be merciful, Little angel Mother.

CLAIRE. Do not presume to call me your little angel mother. Where
are the police?

NARYSHKIN. We are the police in St Petersburg, little spitfire.

THE SERGEANT. God knows we have no orders to harm you, Little
Mother. Our duty is done. You are well and strong; but I shall
never be the same man again. He is a mighty and terrible fighter,