Mentor.
[Advances, examines it.] Spindle belonging to a spinning-wheel of a century ago!
All.
[Exclaim, remembering.] Oh!
Moss-Rose.
That’s the word! Spin! Oh, it won’t ever hurt me any more!
[As she speaks the spindle is drawn by its thread back into the mug.]
The Chancellor.
[Remembering.] To be sure. Sentence commuted—kindness of Sir Amphibious—sleep for one hundred years!