Pilia. Methinks he fingers very well.
Bar. So did you when you stole my gold. [Aside.
Pilia. How swift he runs.
Bar. You ran swifter when you threw my gold out of my window. [Aside.
Bell. Musician, hast been in Malta long?
Bar. Two, three, four month, madam.
Itha. Dost not know a Jew, one Barabas?
Bar. Very mush; monsieur, you no be his man?60
Pilia. His man?
Itha. I scorn the peasant; tell him so.