He has swung round to bring together the POISONER - KING and the two cloaked TRAGEDIANS the latter kneel and accept a scroll from the KING.

–giving them a letter to present to the English court and so they depart-on board ship

The two SPIES position themselves on either side of the PLAYER , and the three of them sway gently in unison, the motion of a boat; and then the PLAYERdetaches himself.

–and they arrive

One spy shades his eyes at the horizon.

–and disembark-and present themselves before the English king- (He wheels round.) The English king-

An exchange of headgear creates the ENGLISH KING from the remaining player-that is, the PLAYERwho played the original murdered king.

But where is the Prince? Where indeed? The plot has thickened-a twist of fate and cunning has put into their hands a letter that seals their deaths!

The two SPIES present their letter, the ENGLISH KING reads it and orders their deaths. They stand up as the PLAYERwhips off their cloaks preparatory to execution.

Traitors hoist by their own petard?-or victims of the gods? –we shall never know!

The whole mime has been fluid and continuous but now ROS moves forward and brings it to a pause. What brings ROS forward is the fact that under their cloaks the two SPIES are wearing coats identical to those worn by ROS and GUIL , whose coats are now covered by their cloaks. ROS approaches "his" spy doubtfully. He does not quite understand why the coats are familiar. ROS stands close, touches the coat, thoughtfully…

ROS: Well, if it isn't-! No, wait a minute, don't tell me-it's a long time since-where was it? Ah, this is taking me back to-when was it? I know you, don't I? I never forget a face- (he looks into the spy's face) … not that I know yours, that is. For a moment I thought-no, I don't know you, do I? Yes, I'm afraid you're quite wrong. You must have mistaken me for someone else.

GUIL meanwhile has approached the other spy, brow creased in thought.

PLAYER (to GUIL) : Are you familiar with this play?

GUIL: No.

PLAYER: A slaughterhouse-eight corpses all told. It brings out the best in us.

GUIL (tense, progressively rattled during the whole mime and commentary) : You!-What do you know about death?

PLAYER: It's what the actors do best. They have to exploit whatever talent is given to them, and their talent is dying. They can die heroically, comically, ironically, slowly, suddenly, disgustingly, charmingly, or from a great height. My own talent is more general. I extract significance from melodrama, a significance which it does not in fact contain; but occasionally, from out of this matter, there escapes a thin beam of light that, seen at the right angle, can crack shell of mortality.

ROS: Is that all they can do-die?

PLAYER: No, no-they kill beautifully. In fact some of them Id even better than they die. The rest die better than they They're a team.

ROS: Which ones are which?

PLAYER: There's not much in it.

GUIL (tear, derision) : Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama! That isn't death! (More quietly.) You scream and choke and sink to your knees, but it doesn't bring ~ home to anyone-it doesn't catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says-"One day you are going to die." (He straightens up.) You die so many times; how can you expect them to believe in your death?

PLAYER: On the contrary, it's the only kind they do believe. They're conditioned to it. I had an actor once who was condemned to hang for stealing a sheep– –or a lamb, I forget which-so I got permission to have him hanged in the middle of a play-had to change the plot a bit but I thought it would be effective, you know-and you wouldn't believe it, he just wasn't convincing! It was impossible to suspend one's disbelief-and what with the audience jeering and throwing peanuts, the whole thing was a disaster!-he did nothing but cry all the time-right out of character-just stood there and cried… Never again.

In good burnout he has already turned back to the mime: the two SPIES awaiting execution at the hands of the PLAYER, who takes his dagger out of his belt.

Audiences know what to expect, and that is all that they are prepared to believe in. (To the SPIES:) Show!

The SPIES die at some length, rather well. The light has begun to go, and it fades as they die, and as GUIL speaks.

GUIL: No, no, no… you've got it all wrong… you can't act death. The fact of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen –it's not gasps and blood and falling about-that isn't what makes it death. It's just a man failing to reappear, that's all –now you see him, now you don't, that the only thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back-an exit, unobtrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on, until, finally, it is heavy with death.

The two SPIES lie still, barely visible. The PLAYER Comes forward and throws the SPIES' cloaks over their bodies. ROS starts to clap, slowly. BLACKOUT. A second of silence, then much noise. Shouts. "The King rises!-… "Give o'er the play!" and cries for "Lights lights, lightsl" When the light comes, after a few seconds, it comes a sunrise. The stage is empty save for two cloaked figures sprawl, the ground in the approximate positions last held by the dead SPIES. As the light grows, they are seen to be ROS and GUIL and to be resting quite comfortably. ROS raises himself elbows and shades his eyes as he stares into the audience. Finally:

ROS: That must be cast, then. I think we can assume that

GUIL: I'm assuming nothing.

ROS: No, it's all right. That the sun. East.

GUIL (looks up) : Where?

ROS: I watched it come up.

GUIL: No… it was light all the time, you see, and you a your eyes very, very slowly. If you'd been facing back there you'd be swearing that was east.

ROS (standing up) : You're a mass of prejudice.

GUIL: I've been taken in before.

ROS (looks out over the audience) : Rings a bell.

GUIL: They're waiting to see what were going to do.

ROS: Good old east

GUIL: As soon as we make a move they'll come pouring every side, shouting obscure instructions, confusing ridiculous remarks, messing us about from here to breakfast and getting our names wrong.

ROS starts to protest but he has hardly opened his mouth before:

CLAUDIUS (off stage-with urgency) : Ho, Guildenstern!

GUIL is still prone. Small pause.

ROS AND GUIL: You're wanted…

GUIL furiously leaps to his feet as CLAUDIUS and GERTRUDE enter. They are in some desperation.

CLAUDIUS: Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, and from his mother's closet hath he dragged him. Go seek him out; speak fair and bring the body into the chapel. I pray you haste in this. (As he and GERTRUDE are hurrying out.) Come Gertrude, well call up our wisest friends and lot them know both what we mean to do…

They've gone. ROS and GUIL remain quite still.

GUIL: Well…

ROS: Quite.

GUIL: Well, then.

ROS: Quite, quite. (Nods with spurious confidence.) Seek him out. (Pause.) Etcetera.

GUIL: Quite.

ROS: Well. (Small pause.) Well, that's a step in the right direction.

GUIL: You didn't like him?

ROS: Who?

GUIL: Good God, I hope more tears are shed for us!

ROS: Well, it's progress, isn't it? Something positive. Seek him out. (Looks round without moving his feet.) Where does one begin… ? (Takes one step towards the wings and halts.)