"Yes," the Marquis replied, "yes. But he also knew that your friend, Quin, held his indemnity for what was done. So, rely upon it, he will, nay, he must, hold his peace. Kidnapping, or authorising kidnapping, is punished, and righteously punished, for 'tis a fearful crime, so heavily by our laws that your uncle stands in imminent deadly peril for what he has done. And, remember, he is not a peer, therefore he has no benefit to claim. Rest assured that though he has lost his son he will never proclaim what has happened nor divulge a word on the subject. Though, that he may send agents to Virginia to endeavour to obtain his recall is most probable, since, wretch as he is, there must be some heart in his bosom for his own child." So thus, as you may now observe, that great man, my relative, was won over to my cause, and already it seemed as though the champion whom dear Oliver had prayed that the Lord might raise up for me had been discovered. And vastly happy were all of us, my mother, myself, and that faithful friend, at thinking such was the case. So happy indeed were we that we made a little feast to celebrate the Marquis's goodness, and, as he had given my mother a purse with a hundred guineas in it to be spent on anything I should need, we had ample means for doing so. We decorated her humble parlour with gay flowers from the market hard by, we provided a choice meal or so to which we three sat down merrily, all of us drinking the Marquis's health in champaign; we even persuaded my mother to be carried to the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, close to Denzil Street, where from a box we witnessed Mr. Congreve's affecting play, "The Mourning Bride," at which my mother wept much. Unfortunately, as I have now to tell, these joys were to be of but short duration; the time had not yet arrived for our happiness to be complete and on a sure foundation; both of us were still to be trouble-haunted and I to be tossed about by Fate, and, as it seemed, never to know peace.