Others.
Agreed!
Doctor.
[Raising his hand.] Swear it then—you and each
of you, in the name of the Fatherland and in the
presence of the ever-living God!
Others.
[Raising their hands.] We swear it!
Doctor.
Fritz—the counters. [Fritz rises, takes something from sideboard and throws it on table.] In this bag are
eight counters—a counter for each of us here present.
Seven are black, the eighth is white. The man who
draws the white counter will be the one to whom
the lot has fallen. Put out the light. [The light is switched off. In the darkness Dr. Schiller's voice is heard.] Now, rise and draw. [There is a moment of
silence, with movement at the table.] Put up the light.
[The light is flashed up. The men, who are all on their feet, look at their counters. Seven of them throw their counters, which are black, on the table. The eighth man stands with the white counter in his hand. It is Otto.] [Gasping.] Otto! My brother's son!
[There is a moment of painful silence. Then Dr. Schiller recovers himself.] Our proceedings are at an end. Leave the rest to me, comrades! Let everybody else go home and do as intended. [The company break up and go out by door on R. As each passes Otto he shakes his hand in silence.] Good night!
