Rupert (looking down at his stick). Won’t you tell me your trouble, Brandon? I might be able to help.
Brandon. No. I will not tell you our trouble. (Moves towards door.) Please go. It’s nothing to do with you.
Rupert (still looking down at stick). No, Brandon, it may not be anything to do with me. But it may possibly be something to do with—with the public in general—and I’m its only representative in this room. Won’t you tell me?
[Brandon comes forward menacingly, and, to his prise, Rupert comes forward to meet him.
Brandon. Are you going, or are you not?
[They glare into each other’s eyes. Slow moan from Granillo. Pause.
Rupert. No, Brandon, I’m not going. You see, I’m rather awkwardly situated. . . .
Brandon (more menacingly still—a change in his tone). You are something more than that, my friend.
Rupert (holding his ground, a trifle breathless). Oh—how’s that?
Brandon. You are very dangerously situated.
[Comes suddenly forward. Rupert retreats, putting up his stick to protect himself. Brandon seizes it without the slightest difficulty, and brings it down to a horizontal level. Each is holding firmly to it and gazing at the other.
Brandon. Very dangerously situated, indeed.
Rupert (after a pause). Brandon. I am lame, and I have no protection.
Brandon. You have not.
Rupert. Save that of my foresight.
Brandon. Your foresight?
[There is a flash of steel, as the blade is withdrawn from the stick. It is a swordstick. Brandon is left with the empty wooden sheath in his hand.
[ 78 ]
