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Mariamne has heard enough. Raising the machine gun threateningly, she boldly declares:
-You... are sick. And mad. You will stand aside, you conjurer, you and your cheap stage tricks! We are here for a noble purpose - and you are getting in our way! Stand aside now, or I will make you regret it!
The Shrouded Man is cowering, trembling fearfully and chanting:
-No! No! She is going to dance on blood! Do not dance on blood! Speak not to me! Suffer me not to kiss thy mouth...! I will not look at things! I will not suffer things to look at me...! Nooo...!
Maskelyne's eyelids flutter, as if pulled upon by the invisible hands of a puppeteer and his cradle of strings. You see the magician's body arch in an imposing manner, that of the illusionist before a dramatic stage reveal:
-On second thoughts, you have not... failed entirely. You have at least presented me with a rather marvelous opportunity, for the performance of a very old and favourite stage demonstration of mine. As to be expected, it requires a very obliging female participant. Are you aware of a trick I like to call... The Water Banquet...??
