80 
MORTADELLO 
 
The devil’s die to cast—and mine the game to-day. 
Here he comes !  I should like to hide behind the door, 
Leap out on him and strike, one flounder to the floor, 
Bury my teeth in that bull-neck, and snap the spine, 
As a dog kills a rat.  Now, manners, mouth o’ mine ! 
 
 
The door opens and MORTADELLO enters as MONICA regains 
her composure.  But throughout the scene she throws off 
her reserved and modest manner, and behaves as a shame-
less and alluring wanton. 
MORTADELLO.  And so we meet at last ! 
MONICA. 
 
The hour I waited for ! 
MORTADELLO.  Its omen overcast with crimson clouds of war ! 
MONICA.  Ah !  that’s for Venice folk, good sentimental fools ! 
We know that life’s a joke. 
MORTADELLO. 
You play with plaguy tools ! 
I know you, who you are—wanton and murderess. 
MONICA.  Oh, if you knew how far the truth was from your 
guess ! 
MORTADELLO.  Assassin, hypocrite—your sham stigmata 
bleed ! 
MONICA.  O man of little wit, O bat of little breed ! 
They are the very scars—it was mine own surprise. 
There’s more beneath the stars than meets a critic’s eyes. 
MORTADELLO.  I know you, false and vile. 
MONICA. 
 
The holy wounds are there. 
Think you no God can smile upon a sinner’s prayer ? 
MORTADELLO.  If they be true, indeed, our holy faith is 
naught. 
MONICA.  Is that so strange a screed ?