Th. Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir?
Col. G. (starting up). In the name of God, I know nothing of your child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds—in golden sovereigns.
Th. Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir?
Col. G. That's your business. Bring her, and there will be your money.
Th. Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' Bank ov England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for mo lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther—ov the feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo sorry for't? I' hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us.
Col. G. For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring her here, I say, and I will make you happy.
Th. Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be a coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be gooin', aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!—aw'm noan sich a greight foo as yo tak mo for.
Exit. COL. G. follows him. Enter. GER. Sits down before the
Psyche, but without looking at her.
Ger. Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my heart! I will conquer it. But I will love her. The spear shall fill its own wound. To draw it out and die, would be no victory. "I'll but lie down and bleed awhile, and then I'll rise and fight again." Brave old Sir Andrew!
Enter COL. G.