LUKA. Come on—come on—I’ll take you across—
[They go away. Pause.]
ZOB [to the Tartar] Oh-ho! Spring will soon be here, little brother, and it’ll be quite warm. In the villages the peasants are already making ready their ploughs and harrows, preparing to till . . . and we . . . Hassan? Snoring already? Damned Mohammedan!
BUBNOFF. Tartars love sleep!
KLESHTCH [in centre of room, staring in front of him] What am I to do now?
ZOB. Lie down and sleep—that’s all . . .
KLESHTCH [softly] But—she . . . how about . . .
[No one answers him. Satine and the Actor enter.]
THE ACTOR [yelling] Old man! Come here, my trusted Duke of Kent!
SATINE. Miklookha-Maklai is coming—ho-ho!