Re. Off.
Not a bit more good than if you was to ask, Missy.
Gordon.
(Half stammering in his eagerness.) You must take me, somehow or other. You must. I can shoot. I never miss my aim! What is the good of coming here and rousing us all up with your talk of soldiering if you won’t take the best shot in the place?
Re. Off.
(Kindly.) You’ll do no fighting, sir.
Gordon.
(Overcome.) Curse the tree that staked me! Curse the fools that didn’t heal me square!
(There is an awkward silence. He flings up to Nora, who is a little apart from the rest, his eyes blazing.)
Gordon.