Count. And did chance lead thee, too,
To aid a fugitive?
Theod. They saw not that.
Count. They saw it not! How! could her delicate hands,
Weak, soft, and yielding to the gentlest touch,
Sustain that pond'rous mass? No; those tough arms,
Thy force, assisted; else, thou young dissembler——
Theod. She had been seiz'd, and by compulsion brought
Where I stand now.
Count. Thou dost avow it then,