Confiscated, yourself condemn’d to die,
Might not you fly the misdirected sword
Of justice, and of those who well could spare
Beg a poor tithe of what she robb’d you wholly,
And be no rascal still?
Leon. Oh clearly, clearly.
Gil. This granted then, look to the inference.
I am Gil Perez; I who struck the Sheriff,
And kill’d his man, and read the Judge’s papers,
And flying hither, shorn of house and home,