Ash. That’s what I would be, master Blackthorn, but you will not let me—I would be a man, and return this same bag of money.
Black. And get a prison for your pains.
Ash. But the truth—
Black. The truth! it is too dangerous a commodity for us to deal in at present—we know we picked it up a few paces from the Blake’s Head, doubtless dropped from Collins in his struggle with the murderers—but how are we to make that appear—our characters, Will Ash, are not altogether as clear as yonder white cloud, they are blackened a little ever since that affair with the Revenue Officers—you know we are marked men.
Ash. Yes, but unjustly so; I am conscious of my innocence.
Black. Yes, and a man may be hanged in that consciousness—be hanged as I say, and leave the consciousness of his innocence, as food and raiment for his helpless family.
Ash. Oh!—
Black. You are in no situation, Will Ash, to study niceties—when your children shriek “Bread” within your ears, is it a time for a man to be splitting hairs, and weighing grains of sand?
Ash. Do not, Blackthorn, do not speak thus; for in such a case it is not reason, but madness that decides.