FIRST SOLDIER: It is only very ugly or very beautiful women who ever hide their faces. Let her in.

Soldier opens the door, and the DUCHESS masked and cloaked enters.

DUCHESS (to THIRD SOLDIER): Are you the officer on guard?

FIRST SOLDIER (coming forward): I am, madam.

DUCHESS: I must see the prisoner alone.

FIRST SOLDIER: I am afraid that is impossible. (The DUCHESS hands him a ring, he looks at it and returns it to her with a bow and makes a sign to the SOLDIERS.) Stand without there.

Exeunt the SOLDIERS.

DUCHESS: Officer, your men are somewhat rough.

FIRST SOLDIER: They mean no harm.

DUCHESS: I will be going back in a few minutes. As I pass through the corridor do not let them try and lift my mask.

FIRST SOLDIER: You need not be afraid, madam.

DUCHESS: I have a particular reason for wishing my face not to be seen.

FIRST SOLDIER: Madam, with this ring you can go in and out as you please; it is the Duchess’s own ring.

DUCHESS: Leave us. (The SOLDIER turns to go out.) A moment sir. For what hour is…

FIRST SOLDIER: At twelve o’clock, madam, we have orders to lead him out; but I dare say he won’t wait for us; he’s more like to take a drink out of that poison yonder. Men are afraid of the headsman.

DUCHESS: Is that poison?

FIRST SOLDIER: Ay, madam, and very sure poison too.

DUCHESS: You may go, sir.

FIRST SOLDIER: By Saint James, a pretty hand! I wonder who she is. Some woman who loved him, perhaps.

Exit.

DUCHESS (taking her mask off): At last!
He can escape now in this cloak and vizard,
We are of a height almost: they will not know him;
As for myself what matter?
So that he does not curse me as he goes,
I care but little; I wonder will he curse me,
He has the right. It is eleven now.
They will not come till twelve. What will they say
When they find the bird has flown?

Goes over to the table.

So this is poison.
Is it not strange that in this liquor here
There lies the key to all philosophies?

Takes the cup up.

It smells of poppies. I remember well
That, when I was a child in Sicily,
I took the scarlet poppies from the corn,
And made a little wreath, and my grave uncle,
Don John of Naples, laughed: I did not know
That they had power to stay the springs of life,
To make the pulse cease beating, and to chill
The blood in its own vessels, till men come
And with a hook hale the poor body out,
And throw it in a ditch: the body, ay, –
What of the soul? That goes to heaven or hell.
Where will mine go?

Takes the torch from the wall, and goes over to the bed.