The soldiers stand irresolute.
EDSTASTON. Stand off. [To Patiomkin.] Order them off, if you
don't want a bullet through your silly head.
THE SERGEANT. Little Father, tell us what to do. Our lives are
yours; but God knows you are not fit to die.
PATIOMKIN [absurdly self-possessed]. Get out.
THE SERGEANT. Little Father--
PATIOMKIN [roaring]. Get out. Get out, all of you. [They
withdraw, much relieved at their escape from the pistol.
Patiomkin attempts to rise, and rolls over.] Here! help me up,
will you? Don't you see that I'm drunk and can't get up?
EDSTASTON [suspiciously]. You want to get hold of me.
PATIOMKIN [squatting resignedly against the chair on which his
clothes hang]. Very well, then: I shall stay where I am, because
I'm drunk and you're afraid of me.
EDSTASTON. I'm not afraid of you, damn you!
PATIOMKIN [ecstatically]. Darling, your lips are the gates of
truth. Now listen to me. [He marks off the items of his statement
with ridiculous stiff gestures of his head and arms, imitating a
puppet.] You are Captain Whatshisname; and your uncle is the Earl
of Whatdyecallum; and your father is Bishop of Thingummybob; and
you are a young man of the highest spr--promise (I told you I was
drunk), educated at Cambridge, and got your step as captain in
the field at the GLORIOUS battle of Bunker's Hill.
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