Bolt. Why, there is another little ceremony—you know the sentence is—
Geo. Aye, I remember, to be placed as a scarecrow to my brother smugglers,—well, no matter, they’ll let me, I hope, hang over the beach with the salt spray sometimes dashing upon me, and the sea-gull screaming around.
Gray. Give me your hand, friend; so, (shakes hands.) this is an ugly task of mine, but you bear no malice?
Geo. I never knew it when I was a free and happy man, and should never feel it in my dying hour—and to prove to you that the fear of death has not wasted my powers,—there, bend that arm before you measure it—stronger men than you, I take it, have tried in vain.—(Grayling takes hold of George’s arm, and with a slight effort, bends it.) Ah! there was but one man who could do this—he who did it when a boy—surely you are not—yes, it is—Grayling!
Gray. Eh! George—George Wildrove—my earliest, my best of friends, (they embrace.) Oh! and to meet you now, and in such a place—and I—the wretch employed to—
Geo. Nay, Grayling, this is weak—your task is not a free one, ’tis, I know, imposed upon you—to the work, and whilst you measure the limbs of mad George, the felon, think not, for I would not think of him—think not of George Wildrove, the school-boy.
[Music.—Grayling, after a struggle, advances to George—he turns up one of his sleeves, and is about to measure the arm, when his eye falls upon George’s wrist. Grayling, starting back with horror.]
No, no, not if these prison walls were turned to gold, and I by fulfilling this hateful task, might become the whole possessor, I would not do it—as I have a soul, I would not.
Geo. What new alarm? What holds you now?
Gray. Your wrist, George.