Act I, scene vi
Near the wharf. Enter, in haste and evening dress, Schiller.
Irrevocable doom! Unless it hap
That I can flee from 'neath that bus's wheels,
And 'scape the vengeful wrath I cannot fathom
The which Putresco plans. Unless it hap
That Polo's fate be changed ere next day's dawn,
Unless Rangoon (O name!) unless Rangoon ...
But no! 'Tis folly thus, alas, to dream ...
But now this bow is tied about my throat,
And time, our foolish hangman, is abroad,
And shan't return, I think, ti'th'harvest noon
When all things clandestine and queer may do
As them behaves; and I must keep abreast!
He slopes off. There follows a long embarrassed silence.
Enter Marco Polo.
I wonder why yon Schiller shuns me so?
He loves the desert, while I haunt the snow.
He shuns my well-beloved ski; and I,
Unloved by any, save the fair Rangoon,
Am scarcely thought of at the festive board
That does this night take place.
Enter the Bosun, no whit dry.
                                      Good sir, you see
That yonder rotten pier, by lugworm bored,
And chewed by vole and nautilus alike
No whit, this pier, as might a fractured bone
When pressured by the club or cudgel, he
Regrets, I fear. Impassive, I resume
My speech commenced some days ago, to say
I have forgot, yet there is not, withal
A dearth of meaning in my words – therefore,
I'll cut this discourse short, and now depart.
Exit Bosun.
Exit Marco Polo with a shrug of the shoulders.
Schiller remains backstage, sitting crosslegged, weeping copious tears into a bluespotted handkerchief.

Next scene