Gray. Aye, it is the fashion now-a-days—let a knave only rob an orchard, and he’s whipped and cried at for a villain—let him spill blood, and it’s marvellous the compassion that awaits him.
Bolt. Why, how now, master Grayling? once you would not have talked in this manner—you had one time a heart as tender as a girl’s—I have seen you drop a tear upon the hand of a prisoner, as you have fitted the iron upon it. Methinks you are strangely changed of late.
Gray. I am—no matter for that—let me to my work, for time speeds on.
Bolt. Well, you can first begin with mad George.
Gray. And why not with Gwinett?—with Gwinett, I say, the murderer?
Bolt. He’s engaged, at present, taking leave of poor Lucy Fairlove; eh! why what’s the matter with you? why you start and shake as though it was you that was going to suffer.
Gray. Well, well, delay no longer.
Bolt. (calls without.) Holloa! Tom, bring poor George hither. Poor fellow, he had begun to hope for pardon just as the warrant came down.
Enter George and Turnkey. R.
Geo. Now, what further, good master Bolt?