Black. What!—that question from Grayling?—come let’s away.
Ash. We cannot—the portmanteau will be missed, and we instantly pursued.
Black. Stay—is there no surer way—I have it—we’ll even shake its contents a bit, and leave the trunk here—what say you, Grayling?
Gray. As you will—I’m fit for any work.
Black. Come then and assist—(puts portmanteau on table and opens it.) eh—he’s well provided—(takes out a pair of pistols and puts them on table.) ah!—here’s gold—(takes out purse.) Dos’t hear it chink?—Grayling, come and assist, man.
Gray. (approaching the table, and recognising portmanteau.) Hold for your lives—you must not, shall not, touch this.
Black. Eh!—how does the wind blow now?—and why not I pray?
Gray. Anything but this—the owner this morning relieved my necessities—hundreds passed and heeded not the outcast, famishing, Grayling—he who claims this gave me alms, and bade me repent—I am a wretch, a poor houseless, despised wretch—yet villain as I am, there is some touch of feeling left—my hand would fall withered did I attempt to touch it.
Black. Ah, this may be all very well.
Gray. Blackthorn—Ash—dare but to lay a robber’s hand on a single doit, and I’ll alarm the house.