Hush—I know all.
I sense a mystery hidden in the brush—
I feel, feel, feel, who am so sensitive.
I will look through my crystal till I find it,
And when I find it, that will stop the fight!
FLIP
Abracadabra! He would look through a crystal to find what is hidden in brush and pumpkins.
(Trade seats herself on the shield of Mars and lights a cigarette)
LABOR
Enough of nonsense. I am not a child
That I should swallow all this mystic mush.
If old Religion were what once he seemed,
He never would have called on you, O Cult.
(Labor takes a step toward Capital again, and Religion makes a gesture of appeal to Flip.)
FLIP
Blackcoat, there is no use. There is but one enemy who can drain them of their feverish passions and so reconcile them, the same who lies sleeping under the brush in the corner. He has slept long, and while he has been sleeping, women have indulged their husbands and borne too many children, and the world is full to overflowing; men have indulged their families in new luxuries of all kinds. All fear temperance as they fear death, for, like death it curbs desire. The Soul of Man, of whom we constantly hear, has not yet made himself conspicuous, although the women’s clubs claim to know all about him. But, if the enemy should awaken—
(Mars stirs in his sleep)