Mollen. (L. C.) Rosamund, you too will pardon, and grant absolution. Rosamund, Balsted, rise to superior heights—and, from your loftiness, smile on our lovers!
Sir J. (C.) Margaret, you are free!
Marg. (R. C.) What! Can you!
Sir J. I release you!
Mollen. (up L. C.) Go now, my children—leave me—to pour balm on their wounds!
(He waves them off; they rush out gleefully, hand in hand, R. 2 E.)
Sir J. (up R. C.) A miracle! But how—
Mollen. (C.) The infallible working of an undeviating law!
Sir J. Mollentrave, I love your daughter. And she—
Lady C. (rising and to L. of Mollen.) Papa, this will be a disappointment to you, I know. But I—