believe this is your signature.
[_Producing a bond._

_Sir Philip._ Ah! [_Recovering himself._] it is--

_Henry._ Affixed to a bond of 1000_l_. which, by assignment, is mine. By
virtue of this I discharge the debt of your worthy tenant Ashfield! who,
it seems, was guilty of the crime of vindicating the injured, and
protecting the unfortunate. Now, Sir Philip, the retribution my hate
demands is, that what remains of this obligation may not be now paid to
me, but wait your entire convenience and leisure.

_Sir Philip._ No! that must not be.

_Henry._ Oh, sir! why thus oppress an innocent man?--why spurn from you
a heart, that pants to serve you? No answer, farewell. [_Going._

_Sir Philip._ Hold--one word before we part--tell me--I dread to ask it
[_Aside._]--How came you possessed of this bond?

_Henry._ A stranger, whose kind benevolence stepped in and saved--

_Sir Philip._ His name?

_Henry._ Morrington.

_Sir Philip._ Fiend! tormenter! has he caught me!--You have seen this
Morrington?

_Henry._ Yes.

_Sir Philip._ Did he speak of me?

_Henry._ He did--and of your daughter. "Conjure him," said he, "not to
sacrifice the lovely Emma, by a marriage her heart revolts at. Tell him,
the life and fortune of a parent are not his own; he holds them but in
trust for his offspring. Bid him reflect, that, while his daughter
merits the brightest rewards a father can bestow, she is by that father
doomed to the harshest fate tyranny can inflict."

_Sir Philip._ Torture! [_With vehemence._] Did he say who caused this
sacrifice?

_Henry._ He told me you had been duped of your fortune by sharpers.

_Sir Philip._ Aye, he knows that well. Young man, mark me:--This
Morrington, whose precepts wear the face of virtue, and whose practice
seems benevolence, was the chief of the hellish banditti that ruined me.

_Henry._ Is it possible?

_Sir Philip._ That bond you hold in your hand was obtained by robbery.

_Henry._ Confusion!

_Sir Philip._ Not by the thief who, encountering you as a man, stakes
life against life, but by that most cowardly villain, who, in the moment
when reason sleeps, and passion is roused, draws his snares around you,
and hugs you to your ruin.

_Henry._ On your soul, is Morrington that man?

_Sir Philip._ On my soul, he is.

_Henry._ Thus, then, I annihilate the act--and thus I tread upon a
villain's friendship.