SCENE II.—_View of Deal—the Sea_.

_Enter_ GWINETT. L.—GRAYLING _following_, _carrying portmanteau_.

_Gwin_. Unless my memory deceives me, yonder must be our path.

_Gray_. That would have been the road once—but ’tis many years since that was blocked up.

_Gwin_. I thought I could not be deceived.

_Gray_. You are no stranger then to the town?

_Gwin_. No; it is my native place—that is, I lived in it some years ago.—Have you been long here?

_Gray_. Ever since I was born.

_Gwin_. And are doubtless well acquainted with the history of most of its inhabitants.

_Gray_. Aye, history, yes, I have seen proud knaves grovelling in the dust, and poor industry raised to wealth.

_Gwin_. You, my friend, do not seem to have belonged to the fortunate class.

_Gray_. No matter for that; but, Sir, take my word, you had better not put up at the Blake’s Head.

_Gwin_. And why not?

_Gray_. ’Tis full of company. The judges are now in the town to try the prisoners.

_Gwin_. Prisoners! you have, I trust, but few convictions—at least, for very great offences—for murder now, or—

_Gray_. Murder!—no—’tis now eighteen years—eighteen years this very day since—

_Gwin_. (abstractedly.) Eighteen years—it is—it is the day.

_Gray_. Oh you remember it then.

_Gwin_. No, no; to your story.

_Gray_. I was about to say it was eighteen years since the last execution for murder happened in these parts.

_Gwin_. And the culprit’s name was—

_Gray_. (_fiercely_.) Gwinett—Ambrose Gwinett—ha! ha!

_Gwin_. Were there not, if I remember rightly, some doubts of Gwinett’s guilt?

_Gray_. Doubts!—There might have been among those who are touched with a demure look; but no, he was guilty—guilty of the murder—and I saw him die the death of an assassin.

_Gwin_. Pray was not part of his sentence by some means evaded?

_Gray_. It was.

_Gwin_. I have heard but a confused account of the transaction.

_Gray_. (_eagerly_.) I can tell you the whole—every word of it. He was sentenced to be hung in chains—another that was to suffer with him, was pardoned; so the murderer died alone. Never shall I forget the morning.—Though eighteen years ago, it is now as fresh in my memory as though it was the work of yesterday: I saw the last convulsive struggle of the murderer—nay, I assisted in rivetting the irons on the corse—’twas hung at the destined spot; but, when the morning came, the body was not there.

_Gwin_. Was no enquiry instituted?

_Gray_. Yes; it was supposed the relations of the murderer had stolen the body to give it burial: the murderer’s uncle, and wife were examined—but after a time, no further stir was made.—Curse upon the trick, it cost me my bread.

_Gwin_. How so?

_Gray_. Why I was the prison-smith—had the irons fitted the corse, it must have been cut to pieces, ’ere it could have been removed.

_Gwin_. Gracious heavens! your name is—

_Gray_. Grayling—Ned Grayling—once a sound hearted happy man, but now—come, Sir, all the inns will be full.

_Gwin_. (_snatching the portmanteau from him_.) Wretch! begone—you serve me not.

_Gray_. Wretch! well, granted—it is true: I am a houseless, pennyless, broken-hearted wretch! I have seen every earthly happiness snatched from me—I have sunk little by little, from an honest industrious man, to the poor crawling, famishing, drunkard—I am become hateful to the world—loathsome even to myself. You will not then suffer me to be your porter?

_Gwin_. No! begone.

_Gray_. Well, ’tis all one; yet you might, I think, let a starving fellow creature earn a trifle.

_Gwin_. Starving!

_Gray_. I have scarcely broken bread these two days.

_Gwin_. Unhappy creature—here—(_gives money_—_Grayling offers to take portmanteau_.) no, I will not trouble you. Go, get food, and reform your way of life.

[_Exit_. L.

_Gray_. Reform! too late—too late. Had I the will time would not let me; a few months—nay, weeks, days—and the passenger may pause at the lifeless corse of Grayling stretched in the highway. Every eye looks scorn upon me—every hand shrinks at my touch—every head’s averted from me, as though a pestilence were in my glance.—Intemperance and fierce passion have brought upon me premature old age—my limbs are palsied, and my eyesight fails.—What’s this, alms—alms—won by wretched supplication? well, ’twill buy me a short forgetfulness—oblivion is now my only happiness.

[_Exit_. L.

_Enter_ BLACKTHORN _and_ WILL ASH. R.

_Black_. You were wrong to let him pass you: had you but watched my motions, he could not have escaped.

_Ash_. But in the day time?

_Black_. Day time! day is night if no one sees. He’s gone to the Blake’s Head.

_Ash_. Aye, I never pass the door, but my heart beats and my knees tremble.

_Black_. What! hav’n’t eighteen years cured you of that trick?

_Ash_. Cured me—that bag of money—that bag—’twas the first thing that turned me from the paths of honesty and grievously have I wandered since.

_Black_. Still whining, still complaining, what good could the money do to the dead?

_Ash_. And what good has it done us? but let’s not talk about it.

_Black_. That’s right, and now listen to me. We must have a peep into that portmanteau.

_Ash_. Impossible!

_Black_. Not so, we’ll to the Inn: where can Grayling be?

_Ash_. Not far off I warrant.

_Black_. Well, no matter, we can even do this job without him; but one lucky hit and we are made men.

_Ash_. Aye, this has been your cry year after year—luck! I think I see our luck in every tree, and in every rope.

_Black_. Well, farewell, for the present, but meet me round the lane, leading to the back part of the house.

_Ash_. Round by the lane—no, that I can’t do: I must pass my wife and children’s graves—I have not dared to look upon them this many a day.

_Black_. You refuse then?

_Ash_. No; I’ll meet you, but for the path, that I’ll chuse myself.

[_Exeunt_ R.