Gwin. There I cannot die in peace: in one brief minute I should see all the actions of my infant life, as in a glass—there, there, I cannot die—is there no help?
Bolt. I’m afraid, Sir, none: the judges have quitted the town—but banish these thoughts from your mind—here comes one that needs support even whilst she strives to comfort others.
Enter Lucy. R.
Lucy. Oh! dearest Ambrose—is there no hope?
Gwin. Hope, Lucy, none—my hour is at hand, and the once happy and respected Gwinett, will ’ere sunset die the death of a felon! a murderer! a murderer!—Oh, heavens! to be pointed, gazed at, executed as the inhuman, heartless assassin—the midnight bloodshedder!
Lucy. Bloodshedder! oh, Gwinett.
Gwin. But tell me, dearest Lucy, what say my fellow townsmen of the hapless Ambrose; do they all, all believe me guilty?
Lucy. Ob, no—some there are who, when your name is mentioned, sigh and breathe a prayer for your deliverance,—and some—
Gwin. Aye, there it is, they class me with those desperate wretches, who—oh, would the hour were come—I shall go mad—become a raving maniac: what a life had my imagination pictured: blessed with thee Lucy, I had hoped to travel onward, halting at the grave, an old grey headed happy man, and now, the scaffold—the executioner—can I think upon them, and not feel my heart grow palsied, my sinews fall away, and my life’s breath ebb—but no, I think, and still I live to suffer.
Lucy. There yet remains a hope—your judges are petitioned, they may relent—then years of happiness may yet be ours.