PATOU [Ready to spring from his wheelbarrow.] If he uses those, I’ll strangle him, that’s all!
I will! Howl you never so loud!
THE WHITE PILE
[Feeling himself lost.] No help for it!
[Closely watching him.] He is getting one of his razors ready!
THE WHITE PILE [Striking with his sharp spur.] Take that! Die! [He utters a terrible cry, while CHANTECLER, avoiding the blow, springs aside.] Ah! [He drops to the ground. Cry of amazement.]
What is it?
[Who has hopped up to the fallen COCK and examined him.] Nothing!
Merely he has dexterously slashed his left claw with his right!
THE CROWD [Following and hooting the WHITE PILE, who, having picked himself up, limps off.] Hoo! Hoo!
PATOU and the PHEASANT-HEN [Laughing and weeping and talking, all in one, beside CHANTECLER, who stands motionless, utterly spent, with closed eyes.] Chantecler! It is we! The Pheasant-hen! The Dog! Speak to us, speak!
CHANTECLER [Opening his eyes, looks at them and says gently.] The day will rise to-morrow!
THE SAME, except the WHITE PILE
THE CROWD [After seeing the WHITE PILE off, return tumultuously to CHANTECLER, hailing him with acclamations.] Hurrah!
CHANTECLER [Drawing away from them, in a terrible voice.] Stand back! I know your worth! [The crowd hastily draws back.]
THE PHEASANT-HEN [Close by his side.] Come away to the woods, where true-hearted animals live!
No, I will stay here.
After finding them out?
After finding them out.
You will stay here?
CHANTECLER Not for their sakes, but the sake of my song. It might spring forth less clear from any other soil! But now, to inform the Day that it is sure to be called tomorrow I will sing! [Obsequious movement of the crowd, attempting to approach.] Back! All of you! I have nothing left but my song! [ALL draw away, and alone in his pride, he begins.] Co—[To himself, stiffening himself against pain.] Nothing left but my song, therefore let us sing well! [He tries again.] Co—Now, I wonder, shall I take it as a chest-note, or—Co—a head-note? Shall I count one-three, or—Co—And the accent? Since they filled my head with all that sort of thing, I—Coocooroo—Keekee-ree—And the theory? The dynamic theory? Cock-a—I am all tangled up in schools and rules and rubbish! If he reduced his flight to a theory, what eagle would ever soar? Co—[Trying again, and ending in a raucous, abortive crow.] Co—I cannot sing any more, I, whose method was not to know how, but be quite certain why! [In a cry, of despair.] I have nothing left! They have taken everything from me, my song and everything else. How shall I get it back?