Roger. Madman, listen! Thou canst not harm me, yet I am not Satan. My name is Roger Prynne. I am the husband of the woman you have wronged.
Dimsdell. Thou Roger Prynne?
Roger. Aye, Roger Prynne and thine accuser.
Dimsdell looks about the room as though dazed.
Dimsdell. Why, how is this?—But now, the Governor's garden—and now, my room!—But now, just now, old Doctor Chillingworth—and now, mine enemy, Roger Prynne! Thou art the Devil himself!—Thou shalt not trick me thus.
Band music in distance.
Roger. Trick thee? Why, madman, thou hast been in trance since yester noon. Trick thee! I like the word! 'Tis now the time of day when thou shouldst preach the great Election Sermon, the one event that makes or mars you preachers. Dost hear the music? A day hath passed since thou wast in the garden. They are marching even now to the market place.
Dimsdell. What shall I do?
[Aloud, but to himself.
Roger. Do? Stay here and settle our account; or else go on and publish thyself as what thou art—a hypocrite.