Abbot. Still-born: so dead a house I never saw.
To-day's rehearsal sealed our doom. I pled—
I prayed him on my knees to touch no tone,
No movement, entrance, exit, gesture, pause,
Procession, picture, colour, light or shade;
But that she-devil and walking-ghost, his wife,
Had roused a deadlier devil in him: our chief
Undoes a month's fine artistry in three
Sick hours of mischief.
Hildreth. I've seen the thing before:
Rehearsal is the purgatory of plays;
It fits them for beatitude; but turn
Rehearsal into hell, then farewell heaven.
Abbot. A pin-prick does it.
[Enter Salerne.]
Well, Salerne—Heaven, hell,
And purgatory, what's the matter, man?
Why, you're as grey as putty!
Salerne. Where were you?
Abbot. When?
Salerne. When the curtain fell.
Abbot. I sheltered here.
I'm barometric: I predicted frost,
And feared I might catch cold.
Salerne. Your death of cold.
The chief was hissed.