[_Exit GEOFFREY into room as Dan’l opens door and admits SIR JASPER and REUBEN._ _Jas._ So, Dan’l Druce, thou art the man who for fourteen long years has hidden my daughter away from me! _Dan._ Sir, I am indeed he. _Jas._ Oh, shame upon thee--shame upon thee! _Dan._ I crave your mercy, for I knew not her father’s name till to-day. _Jas._ Yet it would seem that, having learnt it, thou wouldst nevertheless have fled with her, had not this good fellow arrested thy flight. _Dan._ I have naught to say that your honour’s kind heart will not more fitly say for me. We love one another dearly. Truly in the bitterness of my grief I had thought to flee with her, but my better self prevailed, and I stayed. _Reu._ Credit him not, sir, for he lieth. He was in the very nick of departure when I interposed, and with stern upbraiding, withering invective, and threat of instant death, did bid him await your honour’s commands. The palsied coward trembled and obeyed. _Dan._ Nay, sir, this man--this traitorous man--offered to keep the matter from you for ever if I would consent to give him the child to wife. She will herself bear witness to this. _Jas._ (_to REUBEN_). Art thou indeed guilty of this treachery? _Reu._ Why, sir, there is a measure of truth even in this fellow’s speech, inasmuch as I did indeed say it; but (herein lurks the humour of the thing) I did it but to try him. It was, as it were, a subtle essay or delicate test, prepared and carried out to the life with much ingenuity, in pursuit of the grandest of all studies--the conduct of a man under the influence of extraordinary temptation. I am a philosopher! _Jas._ Thy philosophy shall be severely tried. Deliver thy books and papers to Master Geoffrey Wynyard, whom I appoint steward in thy place. Thy stewardship is at an end. Begone! _Reu._ But, sir--consider---- _Jas._ Begone, I say, and let me see thee no more! _Reu._ (_at door_). I am a philosopher! _Jas._ Begone! (_Exit REUBEN, dolefully._) Now, Dan’l Druce, if thou hast aught to say in defence of thy conduct, I am prepared to hear it. _Dan._ Aught to say? No, sir, I’ve naught to say worth saying. Thou’st seen the maiden--thou’st seen how fair she is--how good she is--how pure, and gentle, and tender, and true she is. That says more for me than I could say for myself. She softened my stubborn heart--she made me a man. I’ve learnt to look on her as my daughter--she on me as her father. We’ve bin all in all to each other; and at the thought o’ losin’ of her my poor old heart’s ’most broken in twain. I dunno as I’ve any more for to say. No, sir, that’s all. (_Sighing._) _Jas._ I am sorry for you--but you have brought this grief upon yourself; you have been guilty of gross injustice both to myself and to the girl. _Dan._ (_furious_). What! _Jas._ Knowing as you did that enquiries would certainly be made for the child, you nevertheless stole away from the town, and left no clue whatever as to your destination.