"Here, papa," she cried, "here is the brave man to whom I owe my delivery; to this gentleman's intrepidity--"
A kiss from Mr. Burchell interrupted what she was going to add.
"Ah, Mr. Burchell," said I, "you were ever our friend. We have long discovered our errors with regard to you, and repented our ingratitude. And now, as you have delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she is yours."
"But I suppose, sir," he replied, "you are apprised of my incapacity to support her as she deserves?"
"I know no man," I returned, "so worthy to deserve her as you."
Without the least reply to my offer, he ordered from the next inn the best dinner that could be provided. While we were at dinner, the gaoler brought a message from Mr. Thornhill, desiring permission to appear before his uncle in order to vindicate his innocence and honour. The poor, harmless Mr. Burchell, then, was in reality the celebrated Sir William Thornhill!
Mr. Thornhill entered with a smile, and was going to embrace his uncle.
"No fawning, sir, at present," cried the baronet. "The only way to my heart is by the road of honour; but here I only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression."
At this moment Jenkinson and the gaoler's two servants entered, hauling in a tall man very genteelly dressed. As soon as Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner and Mr. Jenkinson, he seemed to shrink backward with terror, for this was the man whom he had put upon the carrying off of Sophia.
"Heavens," cried Sir William, "what a viper have I been fostering in my bosom!"