Act 3 — [Scene IV.][793]

Bal. How now, my lord, what makes you rise so soon? Lor. Fear of preventing our mishaps too late. Bal. What mischief is it that we not mistrust? Lor. Our greatest ills we least mistrust, my lord, And inexpected harms do hurt us most.5 Bal. Why, tell me, Don Lorenzo, tell me, man, If ought concerns our honour and your own. Lor. Nor you, nor me, my lord, but both in one; For I suspect—and the presumption’s great— That by those base confederates in our fault10 Touching the death of Don Horatio, We are betray’d to old Hieronimo. Bal. Betray’d, Lorenzo? Tush! it cannot be. Lor. A guilty conscience, urged with the thought Of former evils, easily cannot err.15 I am persuaded—and dissuade me not— That all ’s revealed to Hieronimo. And therefore know that I have cast it thus:— Enter Page. But here’s the page. How now? what news with thee? Page. My lord, Serberine is slain. Bal. Who? Serberine, my man?20 Page. Your highness’ man, my lord. Lor. Speak, page, who murdered him? Page. He that is apprehended for the fact.[794] Lor. Who? Page. Pedringano. Bal. Is Serberine slain, that lov’d his lord so well? Injurious villain, murderer of his friend!25 Lor. Hath Pedringano murdered Serberine? My lord, let me entreat you to take the pains To exasperate and hasten his revenge With your complaints unto my lord the king. This their dissension breed a greater doubt.30 Bal. Assure thee, Don Lorenzo, he shall die, Or else his highness hardly shall deny.[795] Meanwhile I’ll haste the marshal-sessions, For die he shall for this his damned deed. Exit Balthazar. Lor. Why so, this fits our former policy,35 And thus experience bids the wise to deal. I lay the plot; he prosecutes the point: I set the trap; he breaks the worthless twigs, And sees not that wherewith the bird was lim’d.[796] Thus hopeful men, that mean to hold their own,40 Must look like fowlers to their dearest friends. He runs to kill whom I have holp[797] to catch, And no man knows it was my reaching fetch.[798] ’T is hard to trust unto a multitude, Or any one, in mine opinion,45 When men themselves their secrets will reveal. Enter a Messenger with a letter. Boy! Page. My lord. Lor. What’s he? Mes. I have a letter to your lordship. Lor. From whence? Mes. From Pedringano that’s imprison’d. Lor. So he is in prison then? Mes. Ay, my good lord.50 Lor. What would he with us?—He writes us here, To stand good lord, and help him in distress.— Tell him I have his letters, know his mind; And what we may, let him assure him of. Fellow, begone; my boy shall follow thee.55 Exit Messenger. This works like wax; yet once more try thy wits. Boy, go, convey this purse to Pedringano; Thou know’st the prison, closely[799] give it him, And be advis’d that none be there about. Bid him be merry still, but secret;60 And though the marshal-sessions be to-day, Bid him not doubt of his delivery. Tell him his pardon is already sign’d, And thereon bid him boldly be resolv’d: For, were he ready to be turned off—[800]65 As ’t is my will the uttermost be tried— Thou with his pardon shalt attend him still. Show him this box, tell him his pardon ’s in ’t; But open ’t not, an if thou lov’st thy life, But let him wisely keep his hopes unknown.70 He shall not want while Don Lorenzo lives. Away! Page. I go, my lord, I run. Lor. But, sirrah, see that this be cleanly[801] done. Exit Page. Now stands our fortune on a tickle point, And now or never ends Lorenzo’s doubts.75 One only thing is uneffected yet, And that’s to see the executioner. But to what end? I list not trust the air With utterance of our pretence[802] therein, For fear the privy whisp’ring of the wind80 Convey our words amongst unfriendly ears, That lie too open to advantages. E quel che voglio io, nessun lo sa; Intendo io: quel mi basterà. Exit.