Mass. Stand off.
Læ. From Scipio thus: by thy late vow of faith, 40
And mutual league of endless amity,
As thou respects his virtue, or Rome’s force,
Deliver Sophonisba to our hand.
Mass. Sophonisba?
Læ. Sophonisba.
So. My lord
Looks pale, and from his half-burst eyes a flame
Of deep disquiet breaks. The gods turn false
My sad presage!
Mass. Sophonisba?
Læ. Even she.
Mass. She kill’d not Scipio’s father, nor his uncle,
Great Cneius.
Læ. Carthage did!