Land. Have you carried the dinner to the prisoner in the vaults of the abbey!
Waiter. Yes. Pease-soup, as usual—with the scrag-end of a neck of mutton—the emissary of the Count was here again this morning, and offered me a large sum of money if I would consent to poison him.
Land. Which you refused? [With hesitation and anxiety.
Waiter. Can you doubt it? [With indignation.
Land. [recovering herself, and drawing up with an expression of dignity.] The conscience of a poor man is as valuable to him as that of a prince.
Waiter. It ought to be still more so, in proportion as it is generally more pure.
Land. Thou say'st truly, Job.
Waiter [with enthusiasm.] He who can spurn at wealth when proffer'd as the price of crime, is greater than a prince.
Post-horn blows. Enter Casimere, in a travelling dress—a light blue great-coat with large metal buttons—his hair in a long queue, but twisted at the end; a large Kevenhuller hat; a cane in his hand.
Cas. Here, waiter, pull of my boots, and bring me a pair of slippers [Exit Waiter.] And heark'ye, my lad, a bason of water [rubbing his hands] and a bit of soap—I have not washed since I began my journey.