University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A Road-side Copse. [Same as Act III. Scene I.] Morning.
Enter Rip, cloaked, with carbine, sword, &c. 2 E. L. H.
Rip.

I've been waiting here and amusing myself by singing
psalms for two hours, at the very least. Patience and piety
support me through much anxiety, but why the devil doesn't
Wilton come to me? This surely must be the corner of the
road at which he desired me to post myself, and a very pretty
road-side ambush it is, from which a traveller can be shot
with great comfort and convenience, both to himself and the
shooter; and, O be joyful! I am becoming an expert hand at
giving fellows a quiet quietus—I'm becoming a practiced cheat
—I call it “cheating,” for it is no more: killing a man is
nothing more than cheating a man of a portion of his weary
pilgrimage through this vale of tears—sela! Hark, some one
comes—'tis he—'tis Master Wilton!

Enter Wilton, hastily, R. H.

At length then you've joined me. By my unsullied honour, I
began to think you'd left me to do this little job by myself.
What is the hour of the day?

Wil.

Between eight and nine.

Rip.

So late, quotha? then our watch will soon be over; if
this fellow comes we'll shoot him and get home to breakfast,
for sooth to say, I am both an hunger'd and athirst.

Wil.

You say rightly—our watch will soon end; for were
a messenger here even now, with Wyndebanke's pardon in his
hand, it would be fair speed to reach Oxford by the chiming of
mine.

Rip.

O be joyful! But prithee what detained you?

Wil.

I was unable to leave the city; a man had been killed
in brawl, and I was called on to pursue and arrest his antagonist.

Rip.

Oh, these ungodly brawlers! Knew ye aught of the
parties?

Wil.

I did; the slain man is that Ticely, who gave evidence
against Wyndebanke: his slayer is no other than Captain Horner—
and though I had much trouble in apprehending him,
curses on the fellow, he has contrived to make his escape, and
is suspected to be somewhere on this road.

Rip.

Despair not. By the aid of prayers, pistols and perseverance,
please the pigs he shan't escape. But hark—do you
not hear something in the distance?

Wil.

Look yonder, down the road—a horseman at full speed!

Rip.

And lo, how he diggeth his rowels in his horse's flanks.
Oh, iniquitous and unmerciful man—hast thou no feeling for
thy beast? Look, look—the dust riseth up before and behind
him, and encompasseth him round about. Look, look—he flieth
like a winged cherubim. Master Wilton, this must be the pardon
bearer!

Wil.

It must! and as he approaches nearer—nearer, I
could swear it was—it is—it is the figure of young Fenwicke.
Rip, let us fire at his horse from behind this furze. Quick—
crouch, crouch! his horse, remember—down! (A pause, and

descriptive music. A horse is heard at first distantly, then

nearer.)
Now! (They fire simultaneously.)
Hit—no! by my—
yes, yes, the horses rears—falls—his foot is entangled in the
stirrup—'tis now free. Upon him Rip—upon him! (They

rush out L. U. E. and immediately re-enter struggling violently

with George Fenwicke, who is bleeding.]

Fen.

Villains, release me! I bear a pardon for Colonel
Wyndebanke—for mercy's sake, release me! I shall be too
late—too late—oh, heaven!

Wll.

Give me that pardon.

Fen.

Never! [Rip seizes him from behind, and drags him

to the earth, while Wilton rudely tears open his vest and snatches

the pardon.]
Too late—oh, mercy he will die—wretches!

[Desperately struggling, he rises, and shaking off Rip, rushes to Wilton, wrenches his pistol from him and fires. Wilton falls. Rip again drags George Fenwicke to the ground, and is about to stab as
Horner rushes in 2 E. R. H.
Hor.
[C. holding Rip at bay.]

Fenwicke—Fenwicke, fly to
Oxford—save the Colonel!

Fen.

The pardon is there—but, oh God! 'twill be too late.

Hor.

Fly, fly—a moment wasted is perdition—fly! (Rip

and Horner fight off, L. H.)

Fen.

The pardon! alas, I am wounded—but the pardon—
(Wrestles with Wilton, who has partially recovered,

and as George Fenwicke again secures the paper, rises and

faintly struggles with him.)
I have it—I have it—now for Oxford.
Hold—stay the execution—the pardon is here—here!

[Overcoming Wilton, as they struggle off, R. H.