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 proffered as the price of crime, is greater than a prince.