Mary. No, Sir, not yet.
Label. Well, then, never take on so—he’ll get over it.
Mary. Oh no, Sir, he’s sure to die—the judges have said so.
Label. The judges—what the doctors! ah my dear, I know, by myself, that the doctors are frequently no great judges—what’s his complaint?
Mary. Complaint, Sir, why they say he’s murdered a man.
Label. Murdered a man! that’s a fatal disease with a vengeance.
Mary. But it’s false, Sir, a wicked falsehood—he murder—why, Sir, he was the best, the kindest young man in all these parts—there was nobody but loved poor Ambrose—
Label. Ambrose! why you don’t mean Ambrose Gwinett?
Mary. Oh yes, Sir, that’s his name.
Label. And who do they say he’s murdered?