Watch. Is this the murderer? He speaks suspiciously.
Lang. No, verily. This is my Lord D'Amville. And his distraction, I think, grows out of his grief for the loss of a faithful servant. For surely I take him to be Borachio that is slain.
D'Am. Hah! Borachio slain? Thou look'st like Snuffe, dost not?
Lang. Yes, in sincerity, my lord.
D'Am. Hark thee—sawest thou not a ghost?
Lang. A ghost? Where, my lord?—I smell a fox.
D'Am. Here i' the churchyard.
Lang. Tush! tush! their walking spirits are mere imaginary fables. There's no such thing in rerum natura. Here is a man slain. And with the spirit of consideration I rather think him to be the murderer got into that disguise than any such fantastic toy.
D'Am. My brains begin to put themselves in order. I apprehend thee now.—'Tis e'en so.—Borachio, I will search the centre, but I'll find the murderer.
Watch. Here, here, here.