RICHARD.
Bless you, Tom Rigby.
[Richard is left alone, and goes to seat by fire.
RICHARD
(dreaming aloud).
First they'll go to the wharves...stealing quietly through the darkness. Then there'll be the muffled dip of oars...and then——Oh, would that I could aid them in this hour! But I am impotent, impotent!
PENROSE
(querulously, as he and Marsh enter).
This tavern's still deserted. Is there naught alive in this town save the half-dozen Indians we've met a-prowling the streets! Where's the landlord?
RICHARD
(mock-humble).
He's absent, sir, on business of importance. But he will soon return. If I may serve you—some cider, sir, or steaming lemon punch?
PENROSE
(haughtily).