Enter Officers with Barabas and Ithamore.
Bar. I'll go alone; dogs, do not hale me thus.
Itha. Nor me neither, I cannot outrun you, constable: O my belly!
Bar. One dram of powder more had made all sure; What a damned slave was I! [Aside.
Gov. Make fires, heat irons, let the rack be fetched.
Knights. Nay, stay, my lord, 't may be he will confess?
Bar. Confess! what mean you, lords, who should confess?
Gov. Thou and thy Turk; 'twas you that slew my son.30
Itha. Guilty, my lord, I confess: your son and Mathias were both contracted unto Abigail; [he] forged a counterfeit challenge.
Bar. Who carried that challenge?