“Be merciful! Take thrice thy money, bid me tear the bond.”
“When it is paid according to the tenor,” was the grim reply.
Antonio saw that all hope was over; there was no use in prolonging the discussion.
“Most heartily I do beseech the court to give the judgment,” he said earnestly.
But even when acknowledging that the sentence must be carried out, Portia fought every inch of the way to secure some small concession for the unhappy merchant. Shylock had brought a knife into the court to cut the pound of flesh, and scales to weigh it, but he had provided no surgeon to dress the wound afterwards. Portia begged that he would provide one, if only out of charity. Was it so nominated in the bond? No. Therefore Shylock declined. Not the smallest point would he concede. The bond should be kept to the very letter.
Ah, if Shylock had only known what a pitfall he was digging for himself by insisting on this point!
In a clear, firm voice Portia began to pronounce sentence. A pound of the merchant’s flesh was Shylock’s; the court awarded it, and the law gave it. The flesh was to be cut off from his breast—(“nearest his heart,” as Shylock had savagely stipulated)—the law allowed it, and the court awarded it.
“Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!” cried Shylock; and, rattling his scales, he darted forward, knife in hand, upon the merchant.
But Portia’s voice rang through the court,—“Tarry a little: there is something else!”
Shylock stood still, aghast; Antonio’s friends looked up with sudden hope. It was Portia’s turn now to keep to the letter of the law. The bond gave no mention of the word “blood”; the words expressly were “a pound of flesh.” Let Shylock, then, take his bond, his pound of flesh; but if in the cutting it he shed one drop of Christian blood, his lands and goods were, by the laws of Venice, confiscate to the State of Venice.