Gwin. The—oh, heavens, the thoughts like fire flash into my brain.—I had forgotten—there is no—no grave for me.
Bolt. Poor fellow, I could almost cry to look at him.
Gwin. Well, what does it matter; it is but in imagination—nothing more.
Bolt. That’s right—come, look boldly on it.
Gwin. Where is the place, that—my heart swells as it would burst its prison—the—you understand.
Bolt. Why, at the corner of the meadow, just by One-Tree Farm.
Gwin. (with great passion.) What!—at—oh!—if there be one touch of mercy in my judges’ hearts, I beseech (throws himself at Bolt’s feet.) I implore you—any other spot—but there—there—
Bolt. And why not there, master Ambrose?
Gwin. Why not!—the cottage wherein I was born looks out on the place—many a summer’s day, when a child, a little happy child, close by my mother’s side, my hand in her’s, I have wandered there picking the wild flowers springing up around us—oh! what a multitude of recollections crowd upon me—that meadow!—many a summer’s night have I with my little sisters, sat waiting my father’s coming—and when he turned that hedge, to see his eyes, how they kindled up, when the happy shout burst from his children’s lips—ah! his eyes are now fixed closely on me—and that shout is ringing in my ears!
Bolt. Come, come, be more composed.