Ang. Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear330
And see be sooth, have reached me, and I come
To know the worst, even at the worst; forgive
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing.
Is it—I cannot speak—I cannot shape
The question—but you answer it ere spoken,
With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows—
Oh God! this is the silence of the grave!
Ben. (after a pause). Spare us, and spare thyself the repetition
Of our most awful, but inexorable
Duty to Heaven and man!
Ang. Yet speak; I cannot—340
I cannot—no—even now believe these things.
Is he condemned?
Ben. Alas!
Ang. And was he guilty?
Ben. Lady! the natural distraction of
Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question
Merit forgiveness; else a doubt like this
Against a just and paramount tribunal
Were deep offence. But question even the Doge,
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him
Guiltless as thy own bosom.
Ang. Is it so?
My Lord, my Sovereign, my poor father's friend,350
The mighty in the field, the sage in Council,
Unsay the words of this man!—thou art silent!
Ben. He hath already owned to his own guilt,[fh]
Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now.
Ang. Aye, but he must not die! Spare his few years,
Which Grief and Shame will soon cut down to days!
One day of baffled crime must not efface
Near sixteen lustres crowned with brave acts.
Ben. His doom must be fulfilled without remission
Of time or penalty—'tis a decree.360