'How pleasant to see you here, John Smith.' The Marquis enters. He holds a gun in one hand.
Of course it was a trap.
'You and your savage pets. Or is this one your prostitute? The one you loved all the time you were – how do I put this delicately? – screwing my wife. No, no, lets not fight. My men are up there, waiting for me to give the order – they have your boy, the Indian – oh, don't worry, he's not dead. They merely shot him in the arm and dragged him onto the deck. You touch me, and he's dead. Now please, sit down.
Thought to go to the king, did you? Not a good idea. No. Not a good idea at all.
It's not hard to track you, John Smith. People talk. That Rolfe seemed more than happy to explain why he was suddenly departing for England- following his wife. Didn't realize who wanted to know of course. Deception doesn't seem to come easy to him – unusual for a diplomat. But then, perhaps you have set the standards too high, Smith. Your entire life is deception, after all.'
'Bring me my son.' Pocahontas puts as much power as she can into the words – and they are undercut with a suggestion of danger, of brutality she did not think she possessed. But he has taken her son.
The aristocrat smiles slowly, then shouts a few words in Russian.
In a breathless silence, they wait, Meg tucking herself away under her father's arm and burying herself into the fabric of his shirt.
Then a sailor comes, and pushes the boy inside.
With a cry, Meg throws herself to him, catches him before he falls.
'I'm sorry, Meg. I'm so, so sorry.'
'No. It's nothing.' They look at each other, covered in blood – and the word disappears for a moment. There are just two young people, soaked and broken and bruised by the world, holding each other's hands to stop themselves from falling.
'How sweet.' The Marquis steps towards them, and in an instant Pocahontas and John Smith lurch forwards, flanking their children, whilst Thomas pushes Meg behind him, lifting his head and looking the older man in the eye.
'What will you do to us?' Pocahontas almost spits the words. He smiles.
'The thing can speak clearly, can't she?'
John clenches his hands into fists. He cannot afford to act rashly.
Slowly, the Marquis walks towards the woman.
Meg, in her world, can hear a sound drawing closer. The Marquis has not noticed it yet. It sounds as though it may be – yes. Yes, that is what it is. It will grow louder.
She cannot let him hear it.
So she starts her sobbing, her whimpering, her moaning madness once again , clutching onto Thomas, and the Marquis turns to look at her in anger.
'Your daughter is insane. I had intended to take her from you. But maybe she is a burden in and of herself.' Meg falls to the floor, pounding at the wood, bruising herself, fighting off Thomas and her father when they try to stop her
A couple of distant shouts, which go unnoticed by those trapped in a room with the screaming travesty of a young girl, a gunshot which occurs just as she tries to claw her way towards the marquis, and has to be subdued –and then she is silent, allows Thomas to bear her to the ground and hold her, tightly, because he thinks she is going to get them all killed.
But he doesn't know.