John. This Musick murders me: what bloud have I now!
Fred. I should know that face. [Enter Fran, and Exit.
John. By this light 'tis he, Frederick,
That bred our first suspicions, the same fellow.
Fred. He that we overtook, and overheard too,
Discoursing of Constantia.
John. Still the same;
Now he slips in.
Duke. What's that?
Fred. She must be here Sir:
This is the very fellow, I told your Grace
Enter Francisco.
We found upon the way; and what his talk was.
Petr. Why, sure I know this fellow; yes, 'tis he,
Francisco, Antonio's boy, a rare Musician,
He taught my Sister on the Lute, and is ever
(She loves his voice so well) about her: certain,
Without all doubt she is here: it must be so.