RICHARD (taking her arm to lift her). Just--her other arm,
Sergeant.

They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men.

Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court martial. It
is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under
a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the
royal monogram G. R. In front of the chair is a table, also
draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing
materials on it. Several chairs are set at the table. The door is
at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of state when it
has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major Swindon, a pale,
sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about 45, sits at
the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. He is
alone until the sergeant announces the General in a subdued
manner which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his
presence felt rather heavily.

SERGEANT. The General, sir.

Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in, the sergeant goes
out. General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. He is a man
of fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage
by an elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies,
aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of
high military distinction. His eyes, large, brilliant,
apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remarkable feature:
without them his fine nose and small mouth would suggest rather
more fastidiousness and less force than go to the making of a