There be some who call themselves patriots, and swear they'll never pay it.
PENROSE
(sipping).
Not pay it? They'll defy us? Pooh! We could bring them to time with a twist of the wrist did we but wish to! (Looking with approval at his own apparel.) A mere handful of men with scarcely any lace for their ruffles, and tarnished buckles for their shoes! They defy us? You're jesting! No, no, my dear Sidney! In spite of all their protests and town meetings they'll be glad enough to give in at the end, and to pay the tax right speedily. For, mark you, in spite of all the rumors of defiance that we've heard, the town to-night lies as quiet as a church.
MARSH.
Aye, so it does.
PENROSE
(rising).
Too quiet for my spirits. Let's seek another tavern where there's more revelry than there is here.
MARSH
(draining his glass).
We'll not find shrewder lemon punch at any. On my way back I'll have another glass.
[Tosses money at Rigby, who lets it lie where it falls. He shakes a clenched hand after the retreating figures of the two lieutenants, and then goes back to lighting his candles on the mantelshelf. Marsh and Penrose exeunt. After a moment there comes from without the sound of a halting step, the door is opened, and Richard Stockton enters, a lad with the eyes of a dreamer, and the bearing of a doer of deeds. Thomas Rigby, at sound of the entering step, turns, taper in hand.