Arch. I tinks it vas—aay—'twas Tipperary.
Foi. No, no, joy; it vas Kilkenny. [100]
Aim. That 's enough for us—self-confession,—-come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate.
Arch. He sends you to jail, you 're tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory.
Foi. And is it so wid you, cussen?
Arch. It vil be sho wid you, cussen, if you don't immediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. Gipsy. Look 'ee, sir, the gallows or the secret, take your choice. [110]
Foi. The gallows! upon my shoul I hate that saam gallow, for it is a diseash dat is fatal to our family. Vel, den, dere is nothing, shentlemens, but Mrs. Shullen would spaak wid the Count in her chamber at midnight, and dere is no haarm, joy, for I am to conduct the Count to the plash, myshelf.
Arch. As I guessed.—Have you communicated the matter to the Count?
Foi. I have not sheen him since. [120]
Arch. Right again! Why then, doctor—you shall conduct me to the lady instead of the Count.