Anhalt.
And your tale too improbable, even for fiction.
Butler.
Improbable! It’s a real fact.
Amelia.
What, a robber in our grounds at noon-day? Very likely indeed!
Butler.
I don’t ſay it was likely—I only ſay it is true.
Anhalt.
No, no, Mr. Verdun, we find no fault with your poetry; but don’t attempt to impoſe it upon us for truth.
Amelia.
Poets are allowed to ſpeak falſehood, and we forgive yours.
Butler.
I won’t be forgiven, for I ſpeak truth—And here the robber comes, in cuſtody, to prove my words. [Goes off, repeating] “I’ll write his dying ſpeech myfelf.”
Amelia.
Look! as I live, ſo he does—They come nearer , he’s a young man, and has ſomething intereſting in his figure. An honeſt countenance, with grief and ſorrow in his face. No, he is no robber—I pity him! Oh! look how the keepers drag him unmercifully into the tower—Now they lock it—Oh! how that poor, unfortunate man muſt feel!
Anhalt. [aſide].
Hardly worſe than I do.
Enter the Baron.
Amelia [runs up to him].
A thouſand congratulations, my dear papa.
