Black. Tush.
Gray. To the trial then.
(Grayling advances to table and seizes hold of part of the contents of the portmanteau from the hand of Blackthorn—they struggle—Blackthorn regains the purse and Grayling is about to pursue him, when his eye falls upon a packet of letters that still remains in his hand—he stands petrified—Blackthorn and Ash are about to go of at the opposite wings, when Label and Gilbert come in from behind, and each taking a pistol from table, come down and prevent the escape of the robbers—Grayling in a state of agitation unmindful of every thing but the papers, which he hastily looks over.)
Gil. So my brave fellows, here you are—three knaves between a parenthesis of bullets.
Black. Why what’s the matter? it’s all a mistake.
Gil. A mistake—yes, I suppose you intended to be a very honest fellow, but by accident are become a convicted scoundrel.
Black. Well,—there’s the money—now we’re clear.
Gil. Clear!—and you, Grayling, are you not ashamed?—do you not fear the gallows?
Gray. (madly.) Gallows!—no, all was lost—good name—hopes—happiness—but yet I had revenge—I hugged it to my heart—’tis gone, and Grayling has nought to live for.
Gil. Give me those papers.