Rosa.
[In compassion.] It is not so badly worn; surely it is worth four guilders!
Sachel.
You lie! I say you lie! Do you think you can make a fool of me—you thieves! Ah, I know you are standing there, twisting your cheeks at me! But you shall not rob me; no, no! Give me that! [He takes the lace and examines it with his fingers.] I knew it! It has been patched—by some bag-maker. You minx—you hussy! Do I feed you that you may rob me? Everybody lies to me—but they do not deceive me! I will not give half a guilder—only thirty cents.
Sachel! I must have two guilders! He died in my arms. You have a son—for pity's sake—for pity's sake!
Sachel.
Have you had pity on my eyes? You say this lace is whole; it is a lie. You say your son is dead; that is a lie too, for all I know. I'll give no more—no more.
Mordecai.
Oh! Oh! Give me that! You black-hearted miser. [He snatches it.] You are rich—you have known me for years—and you would let my son be buried in the pauper's field! A curse on you! May your son live to hate you—desert you—disown you—curse you, as I do!