ROBERT. (_Shyly._) I say, I--won't you--(_he takes out his jack knife and cuts off a button, offering it to her_) I say, won't you, won't you wear it, just to bring me luck?
ROBERT. Of course I don't mean--to--to bother you in any way. I mean it only in--in friendship! Just to bring me luck. Do! There's nothing in it--nothing silly--like what _they_ said.
LOVEDAY. (_Smiling, very charmingly._) Shall I sew it on again for you?
ROBERT. Oh! If you _won't_ have it--you may sew it on if I may keep my coat on while you are doing it!
LOVEDAY. Very well. Heroes have to be humoured, I suppose. Come along, it's getting late!
(_THEY follow the others, as she is going off she looks back and sends a compassionate glance towards GORDON._
_The sky rapidly darkens. GORDON stays behind, waits till they are all out of sight, then he throws himself face down on the ground, clenching his hands and moving as though in pain. The bell bird's clear sweet note is heard. He lies in silence then groans aloud._)
GORDON. To both my country and the woman I love, I'm not a man. I'm lumber--useless lumber! Nora! Nora!
(_GORDON crouches in despair. The stage is now dusky, a pale moon shows. Softly, without any noise, between the trunks of two tall trees appears behind him the upper part of a white figure, with the forehead and head half covered by a floating white veil; the face is tender and grave, the eyes glowing as if inspired. In the shadowy light the figure looks like a vision. GORDON does not recognise that it is LOVEDAY. He slowly, as if mesmerised, rises on to his knees. There is a sweet low call of the bell bird far away. Stillness for a moment. LOVEDAY stands silent between the trees._)
GORDON. (_Still half kneeling, speaking in awed tones._) You are a spirit?
GORDON. You are the goddess of the woods come to me in my pain! Tell me, you beautiful, you wonderful--tell me, what have I to do? Speak to me, speak to me!
(_LOVEDAY does not move; in a soft, penetrating voice, she intones, like a chant._)
LOVEDAY. The bodies of men that can fight are mown down like the grass.
The body of one young man, even if he is a prince among men cannot slay more than a hundred of his enemies.
But by thought a man's brain might conceive of a way to kill or to save hundreds of thousands.