Gil. Those, master Grayling, who do not let their hate stand in the light of their clear judgment. This is, I warrant me, a rare day of triumph for you.
Gray. Aye, and ought to be to every honest man! ’tis for rogues to be sad, when rogues are caught.
Gil. I dare say now you think this will serve your turn with Miss Lucy.
Gray. Perhaps I do, and what then?
Gil. What then! why then you overcount your profits: take my simple word for it, she hates you! hates you as much as she loves—
Gray. Her uncle’s murderer, eh? are not those the words? with all my heart, I would rather have the deadly hate of Lucy Fairlove, than the softest pity of Lucy Gwinett. Oh! I thought there was a world of mischief under the smooth face of the assassin—had he struck for a deep revenge I could have pardoned him, for it might have been my own fate—but to murder a man for gold! for a few pieces of shining dross—’tis a crime to feel one touch of pity for so base a miscreant.
Gil. Bless me—’tis all like a dream—’twas but yesterday, and we were all as happy as the best.
Gray. Aye, it was but yesterday when the gay trim master Ambrose scorned and contemned me! but yesterday, and Lucy hung upon his arm! and to-day—ha! ha! ha!—I stood against him at the fatal bar; as I passed, his brow blackened, and his lips worked—his eyes shot the lightnings of hate upon me—at that moment my heart beat with a wild delight, and I smiled to see how the criminal shrunk as I told the tale that damn’d him—to see him recoil as though every word I uttered fell like a withering fire upon his guilty heart. (A scream is heard from the Sessions’ House.) Ah! the trial is ended. (A neighbour comes from Sessions’ House, Grayling runs to him.) say—the prisoner—
Neigh. Guilty.
Gray. And no hopes of mercy?