Corn. Alas! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i' th' ground, and pray for me, if you 'll let me come to him.
Enter Brachiano, all armed, save the beaver, with Flamineo and others
Brach. Was this your handiwork?
Flam. It was my misfortune.
Corn. He lies, he lies! he did not kill him: these have killed him, that would not let him be better looked to.
Brach. Have comfort, my griev'd mother.
Corn. Oh, you screech-owl!
Hort. Forbear, good madam.
Corn. Let me go, let me go.
[She runs to Flamineo with her knife drawn, and coming to him lets it
fall.
The God of heaven forgive thee! Dost not wonder
I pray for thee? I 'll tell thee what 's the reason,
I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes;
I 'd not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well:
Half of thyself lies there; and mayst thou live
To fill an hour-glass with his moulder'd ashes,
To tell how thou shouldst spend the time to come
In blessed repentance!
Brach. Mother, pray tell me
How came he by his death? what was the quarrel?