Your name attainted, and hold back in silence.
Veniero.
Alas! you know them not; know not that here
Who is suspected is already doomed.
’Tis hard that I should perish thus, the scorn
Of the schooled rabble! Trust me—I would meet
Death on the field with joy—but to be hewn
By menial hands—gazed on by eyes that gloat
Upon my blood—or wept by vulgar pity!
I do not scorn to say I fear such fate.