Act II, scene xii
Enter Schiller and Servant. They begin to play at darts.
I wonder what nefarious wight it was
Who took from underneath my very gaze
That plan we found?
                           Aye sir, 'tis passing strange.
It's more than that: it doth surpass all wit
That men do know. The sharpened steel perchance
Shall find it me.
                           But not before the night,
When darkness as a magic cloak shall be
About our persons bound – then need we fear
No whit of treachery.
                           Save Putresc's: he.
Indeed? Then I in him am much deceived.
Methought the him a wight of dull intents
Incapable of aught but carpentry.
Would it were thus! He aims to cripple me
With that his bus whereon of late he plied
His doubtful trade of vegetables and fruit.
Now has he tuned the engine, sprayed the sides,
And clothed with new upholstery the seats
That all may think him hon'rable and true.
He's now a businessman respectable,
Or so would seem.
                           Perhaps his true intent
Is just as it appears.
                           No, no, my man!
Canst not discern a villain when thou seest?
Not since that horrid boy destroyed my sight
Wherefor I play so badly now at darts.
Which has been manifest.
Indeed! 'Tis comforting to win betimes,
Unless it presages a greater loss
Like yours. I weep for you, I sympathize
Which is patently not the case.
Master, I'm touched by your tears and pity so
That I could never think of doing thee
Such harm as once I ... no, as Putresc would.
I'll take your word for this, but let's play on ...
No, noble wight, i'faith I shun this game.
You'll not unless it hap I give you leave!
But out of pity for your blindsome state
I'll do this now: we'll quit this irksome sport
For cares of state oppress me still; that map
That secret screen of sevenfold traverse
Has from me been quite robb'd! O cursed wight –
O eightyfold expectorated he!
Now may he be in warm saliva drown'd,
And stoppered by the wooden cork of hate ...
But cease vituperation – a'must be found.
Then I, as doth befit thy trusty slave
Shall saddle thirty mules at thy behest
And seek that thing.
                           Thou'lt earn thy silver wage
Four times repeated, if thou find'st me him
Who stole that gilded scrap.
                                      O, master! Master!
I hear one in the neighbouring room who creeps ...
Schiller rushes to door, discharges a small pistol into the neighbouring, darkened room. A cry is heard. Antipodes crawls onstage in paroxysmic agony.
Good sir, I cannot know the cause wherefore
You've fed my back with steely bullets four
And spill my rancid blood upon the floor
Whose wastage all economists deplore.
Before I go, I'll tell you this and more:
When death you dealt me through yond wooden door
I vowed that I should speak, my sins outpour
Before collapsing, ere I die, before
I shun this globular repose: explore
My greatcoat pockets. What you find there tore
I from the body of Rangoon. I implore
You, wax not wrath! For I am stricken sore
With conscience and with bullets. My life does thaw,
And now I'll dwell in Hades, ever dead.
Exit no whit alive.
Expires he!
                Aye, let's cut off quick his head.
Exeunt bearing his body, to a sprightly jig.

Next scene