COL. [_Springing up._] The Prince! ha, ha! I smell a rat! the Pretender! the Pretender! if there was ever such luck, such fortune! Hang me if I could not--but there’s not an instant to be lost. Fly, Weasel, to the village. Bid Corporal Catchup and a dozen stout fellows be with me directly. Fly, I say, and if it be all as I hope, I’ll cram you with gold till you choke. Begone! Fly! [_Exit WEASEL._] Thirty thousand pounds and a baronetship! Sir Stephen Stumply! Ah, if that wayward boy--the Pretender! the Pretender! he’s in a net, in a net, and I’ll be hanged if I let him out of it. [_Exit._]