George. Zoe, you are suffering—your lips are white—your cheeks are flushed.
Zoe. I must be going—it is late. Farewell, Dora. [Retires.]
Pete. [Outside, R.] Whar's Missus—whar's Mas'r George?
George. They come.
Enter Scudder.
Scud. Stand around and let me pass—room thar! I feel so big with joy, creation ain't wide enough to hold me. Mrs. Peyton, George Peyton, Terrebonne is yours. It was that rascal M'Closky—but he got rats, I avow—he killed the boy, Paul, to rob this letter from the mail-bags—the letter from Liverpool you know—he sot fire to the shed—that was how the steamboat got burned up.
Mrs. P. What d'ye mean?
Scud. Read—read that. [Gives letter.]
George. Explain yourself.
Enter Sunnyside.