[Exit. R.
Label. Nobody knows me—no one sees the valet in the steward, the late Label, barber and doctor—and only think that I should meet with Master Collins—a man who was thought murdered—alive and flourishing in India—poor Gwinett—poor Ambrose—I have never had the courage to tell my master that sad story—he little thinks that an innocent man has been hanged on his account—somehow I wish I had told him—and yet what would have been the use; he couldn’t have brought the dead man alive again, and it would only have made him miserable. But now he can’t long escape hearing the whole tale, and then what will become of me—no matter; I must put a bright face upon the business, and trust to chances.
[Exit. R.
SCENE II.—View of Deal—the Sea.
Enter Gwinett. L.—Grayling following, carrying portmanteau.
Gwin. Unless my memory deceives me, yonder must be our path.
Gray. That would have been the road once—but ’tis many years since that was blocked up.
Gwin. I thought I could not be deceived.
Gray. You are no stranger then to the town?
Gwin. No; it is my native place—that is, I lived in it some years ago.—Have you been long here?