The guard and the Sergeant rush in. Edstaston draws a pair of
small pistols from his boots, and points one at the Sergeant and
the other at Patiomkin, who is sitting on the floor, somewhat
sobered. 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