Jim.  Yu threw un out of winder.  I cud ’ave, once, I cud.

     [Strangway neither moves nor speaks; and Jim Bere goes on with
     his unimaginably slow speech]

They’m laughin’ at yu, zurr.  An’ so I come to tell ’ee how to du.  ’Twas full mune—­when I caught ’em, him an’ my girl.  I caught ’em. [With a strange and awful flash of fire] I did; an’ I tuk un [He taken up Strangway’s coat and grips it with his trembling hands, as a man grips another’s neck] like that—­I tuk un.  As the coat falls, like a body out of which the breath has been squeezed, Strangway, rising, catches it.

Strangway. [Gripping the coat] And he fell!

     [He lets the coat fall on the floor, and puts his foot on it. 
     Then, staggering back, he leans against the window.]

Jim.  Yu see, I loved ’er—­I did. [The lost look comes back to his eyes] Then somethin’—­I dunno—­and—­and——­[He lifts his hand and passes it up and down his side] Twas like this for ever.

     [They gaze at each other in silence.]

Jim. [At last] I come to tell yu.  They’m all laughin’ at yu.  But yu’m strong—­yu go over to Durford to that doctor man, an’ take un like I did. [He tries again to make the sign of squeezing a man’s neck] They can’t laugh at yu no more, then.  Tha’s what I come to tell yu.  Tha’s the way for a Christian man to du.  Gude naight, zurr.  I come to tell yee.

     [Strangway motions to him in silence.  And, very slowly, Jim
     Bere passes out.]

     [The voices of men coming down the green are heard.]

Voices.  Gude night, Tam.  Glide naight, old Jim!

Voices.  Gude might, Mr. Trustaford.  ’Tes a wonderful fine mune.

Voice of Trustaford.  Ah!  ‘Tes a brave mune for th’ poor old curate!

Voice.  “My ’eart ’E lighted not!”

[TRUSTAFORD’S laugh, and the rattling, fainter and fainter, of wheels.  A spasm seizes on Strangway’s face, as he stands there by the open door, his hand grips his throat; he looks from side to side, as if seeking a way of escape.]

Curtain.

SCENE II

The BURLACOMBES’ high and nearly empty barn.  A lantern is hung by a rope that lifts the bales of straw, to a long ladder leaning against a rafter.  This gives all the light there is, save for a slender track of moonlight, slanting in from the end, where the two great doors are not quite closed.  On a rude bench in front of a few remaining, stacked, square-cut bundles of last year’s hay, sits Tibby Jarland, a bit of apple in her mouth, sleepily beating on a tambourine.  With stockinged feet Gladys, Ivy, Connie, and mercy, Tim Clyst,