Dimsdell. I see it now!—Ah! Satan! Satan!—thou wouldst affright my soul and make me lose my well earned honors. Why, Roger Prynne is dead—dead. 'Twas told on good report two years ago. And now—oh! try it if thou wilt—I'll have thee burnt, burnt—burnt at the stake, if thou accusest me! Who would believe thee? Stand aside, I say! Let me pass!
Roger. How came the stigma on thy breast?
Dimsdell. Thou knowest!—Make way, I tell thee!—Thou didst place it there!—Make way!
They struggle. Roger interposes the chair between himself and Dimsdell. Finally, Dimsdell wrenches the chair from Roger, flings it aside, and, grappling him, chokes Roger to death.
Dimsdell. [Panting] A man! A man! A man!—Dead! dead! dead!—Nay—like a man!—Like a dead man!—A trick!—A devilish trick!—Did he not come in angel form—and then as Doctor Chillingworth—and then as Roger Prynne—and now,—and now, as a dead body?
Spurning Roger with his foot.
O, Devil, I'll avoid thee yet!—I'll confess my crime and thus unslip the noose about my soul!
Hurriedly prepares to depart.
He said we'd meet again! We have, and 'tis the last time!