heriff, and all, to seize him. Not a word
spoke the Bandit, but his attitude was sublime,--even Vance cried
"bravo;" and just as he is seized, halter round his neck, and about
to be hanged, down from the chasm above leaps his child, holding
the title-deeds, filched from the Baron, and by her side the King's
Lieutenant, who proclaims the Bandit's pardon, with due restoration
to his honours and estates, and consigns to the astounded Sheriff the
august person of the Remorseless Baron. Then the affecting scene, father
and child in each other's arms; and then an exclamation, which had been
long hovering about the lips of many of the audience, broke out, "Waife,
Waife!" Yes, the Bandit, who appeared but in the last scene, and even
then uttered not a word, was the once great actor on that itinerant
Thespian stage, known through many a fair for his exuberant humour, his
impromptu jokes, his arch eye, his redundant life of drollery, and the
strange pathos or dignity with which he could suddenly exalt a jester's
part, and call forth tears in the startled hush of laughter; he whom the
Cobbler had rightly said, "might have made a fortune at Covent Garden."
There was the remnant of the old popular mime!--all his attributes of
eloquence reduced to dumb show! Masterly touch of nature and of art
in this representation of him,--touch which all who had ever in former
years seen and heard him on that stage felt simultaneously. He came in
for his personal portion of dramatic tears. "Waife, Waife!" cried many a
village voice, as the little girl led him to the front of the stage.

He hobbled; there was a bandage round his eyes. The plot, in describing
the accident that had befallen the Bandit, idealized the genuine
infirmities of the man,--infirmities that had befallen him since last
seen in that village. He was blind of one eye; he had become crippled;
some malady of the trachea or larynx had seemingly broken up the once
joyous key of the old pleasant voice. He did not trust himself to speak,
even on that stage, but silently bent his head to the rustic audience;
and Vance, who was an habitual playgoer, saw in that simple salutation
that the man was an artistic actor. All was over, the audience streamed
out, much affected, and talking one to the other. It had not been at all
like the ordinary stage exhibitions at a village fair. Vance and Lionel
exchanged looks of surprise, and then, by a common impulse, moved
towards the stage, pushed aside