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 He sit desponding. Enter.

My kind master is sad! Dear Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd—

Hush! As you love me, breathe not that hated name. Twenty years ago, in horror at the prospect of inheriting that hideous title and, with it, the ban that compels all who succeed to the baronetcy to commit at least one deadly crime per day, for life, I fled my home, and concealed myself in this innocent village under the name of Robin Oakapple. My younger brother, Despard, believing me to be dead, succeeded to the title and its attendant curse. For twenty years I have been dead and buried. Don't dig me up now.

Dear master, it shall be as you wish, for have I not sworn to obey you for ever in all things? Yet, as we are here alone, and as I belong to that particular description of good old man to whom the truth is a refreshing novelty, let me call you by your own right title once more! [ assents.] Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd! Baronet! Of Ruddigore! Whew! It's like eight hours at the sea-side!

My poor old friend! Would there were more like you!

Would there were indeed! But I bring you good tidings. Your foster-brother, Richard, has returned from sea—his ship the Tom-Tit rides yonder at anchor, and he himself is even now in this very village!

My beloved foster-brother? No, no—it cannot be!

It is even so—and see, he comes this way!

Enter Chorus of Bridesmaids.

From the briny sea Comes young Richard, all victorious! Valorous is he— His achievements all are glorious! Let the welkin ring With the news we bring— Sing it—shout it— Tell about it— Safe and sound returneth he, All victorious from the sea!