a thief out of his gains as say my prayers, any day, and liefer."

"Still," says I, "the money must of right belong to some one."

"We will say that the money belongs to a child of the same age as Moll."

"Then it comes to this, Señor," says I, bluntly. "We are to rob that
child of fifty thousand pounds."

"When you speak of robbing," says the Don, drawing himself up with much
dignity, "you forget that I am to play a part in this stratagem--I, Don
Sanchez del Castillo de Castelaña."

"Fie, Kit, han't you any manners?" cries Dick. "What's all this talk of
a child? Hasn't the Señor told us we are but to bustle a cheat?"

"But I would know what is to become of this child, if we take her
fortune, though it be withheld from her by another," says I, being
exceeding obstinate and persistent in my liquor.

"I shall prove to your conviction," says the Don, "that the child will
be no worse off, if we take this money, than if we leave it in the hands
of that rascally steward. But I see," adds he, contemptuously, "that for
all your brotherly love, 'tis no such matter to you whether poor little
Molly comes to her ruin, as every maid must who goes to the stage, or is
set beyond the reach of temptation and the goading of want."

"Aye, and be hanged to you, Kit!" cries Dawson.

"Tell me, Mr. Poet," continues Don Sanchez, "do you consider this