Old Lar. How, Sirrah! how! Do you disparage my Son? Do you run down my Boy? Hearkee, either make up Affairs between them immediately, exert thy self in thy proper office and hold the Door, or I'll blow up thy Convent; I'll burn your Garrison, and disband such a Set of black Locusts as shall rob and pillage all Toulon.
Mart. I contemn thy Threats. The Saints defend their Ministers.
Old Lar. The Saints defend their Ministers! the Laws defend them: St. Wheel, and St. Prison, and St. Gibbet, and St. Faggot; these are the Saints that defend you. If you had no Defence but from the Saints in the other World, you wou'd few of you stay long in this. If you had no other Arms than your Beads, you would have shortly no other Food.
Mart. Oh Slanderous! Oh impious! some Judgment cannot be far off.
Old Lar. When a Priest is so near—Sirrah!
SCENE VIII.
Isabel, to them.
Mart. Daughter, fly from this wicked Place; the Breath of Sin has infected it, and two Gallons of Holy Water will scarce purify the Air.
Isa. Oh! Heavens! What's the Matter, Father?