Your suit is won; and we relax our rigour.——
Let them pass free; while we do here pronounce
A general pardon.
La Gloire. A pardon! no!—Oh diable!—My father! and my commander too!—Huzza!—[Takes the Rope from his Father's Neck, then from his own, and runs down with the Three Kinsmen.]—-Oh! that I should live to unrope my poor old father, and master!
[Runs to Ribaumont, and takes the Rope off his Neck.
Enter Madelon.
[She and La Gloire rush into each other's Arms.
Madelon. Oh! my poor La Gloire!—My tears—
La Gloire. That's right! Cry, Madelon!—cry for joy, wench!—Old Eustache is safe!—my Captain and relations free!—Here's a whole bundle of honest necks recovered: mine's tossed in, in the lump; and we'll be married, Madelon, to-morrow.