Arch. He sends you to gaol, you are tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory.
Foig. And is it sho wid you cussen?
Arch. It will be sho wid you, cussen, if you don't immediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. Gipsey—Lookye, sir, the gallows or the secret, take your choice.
Foig. The gallows! upon my shoul I hate that shame gallows, for it is a diseash dat is fatal to our family.—Vel den, there is nothing, shentlemens, but Mrs. Sullen would spaak wid the count in her chamber at midnight, and dere is no harm, joy, for I am to conduct the count to the plaash myself.
Arch. As I guessed.——Have you communicated the matter to the count?
Foig. I have not sheen him since.
Arch. Right again; why then, doctor;—you shall conduct me to the lady instead of the count.
Foig. Fat, my cussen to the lady! upon my shoul, gra, dat's too much upon the brogue.
Arch. Come, come, doctor, consider we have got a rope about your neck, and if you offer to squeak, we'll stop your windpipe, most certainly; we shall have another job for you in a day or two, I hope.
Aim. Here's company coming this way; let's into my chamber, and there concert our affairs further.