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 Jane.No. I don't know what has become of it these last few days.

Gilbert.Here is mine.—Until to-morrow morning.—Do not forget this, Jane: to-day, still your father; a week hence, your husband.

[He hisses her forehead, and exit.

Jane [alone.]My husband! Ah! no, I'll not commit that crime. Poor Gilbert! he loves me—and the other!—If only I have not preferred vanity to love! Unfortunate girl that I am! in whose dependence am I now? Oh! I am sadly ungrateful and most guilty! I hear footsteps. I must go in quickly.

[She enters the house.

Gilbert.Yes, I recognize you; you are the begging Jew who has been hovering about this house several days. But what do you want with me? Why did you take my hand and lead me hence?

The Man.Because that which I have to say to you, I can say nowhere else.

Gilbert.Well, what is it, pray? Speak—and quickly.

The Man.Hark ye, young man.—Sixteen years ago, on the same night when Talbot Earl of Waterford was beheaded by torchlight for the crimes of popery and rebellion, his partisans were hewn in pieces here in London by the troopers of King Henry the Eighth. There was shooting all night in the streets. That night a very young mechanic, much more intent upon his task than upon the war, was