Foi. Mackshane! by St. Paatrick, dat ish my naam shure enough!

[Aside.

Aim. I fancy, Archer, you have it.

[Aside to Archer.

Foi. The devil hang you, joy! by fat acquaintance are you my cussen?

Arch. Oh, de devil hang yourshelf, joy! you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster-moder’s son was married upon my nurse’s chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens.

Foi. De devil taake de relation! vel, joy, and fat school was it?

Arch. I tinks it vas—aay—’twas Tipperary.

Foi. No, no, joy; it vas Kilkenny.

Aim. That’s enough for us—self-confession,—come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate.

Arch. He sends you to jail, you’re tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory.

Foi. And is it so wid you, cussen?

Arch. It vil be sho wid you, cussen, if you don’t immediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. Gipsy. Look’ee, sir, the gallows or the secret, take your choice.

Foi. The gallows! upon my shoul I hate that saam gallow, for it is a diseash dat is fatal to our family. Vel, den, dere is nothing, shentlemens, but Mrs. Shullen would spaak wid the Count in her chamber at midnight, and dere is no haarm, joy, for I am to conduct the Count to the plash, myshelf.

Arch. As I guessed.—Have you communicated the matter to the Count?

Foi. I have not sheen him since.

Arch. Right again! Why then, doctor—you shall conduct me to the lady instead of the Count.

Foi. Fat, my cussen to the lady! upon my shoul, gra, dat is too much upon the brogue.

Arch. Come, come, doctor; consider we have got a rope about your neck, and if you offer to squeak, we’ll stop your windpipe, most certainly: we shall have another job for you in a day or two, I hope.

Aim. Here’s company nothing this way; let’s into my chamber and there concert our affairs farther.

Arch. Come, my dear cussen, come along.

[Exeunt.

Enter Boniface, Hounslow, and Bagshot at one door, Gibbet at the opposite.

Gib. Well, gentlemen, ’tis a fine night for our enterprise.

Houn. Dark as hell.