Abs. I know not.
Mor. All the country's in an uproar yonder: the Prince Antonio's slain.
Ambo. How!
Mor. Nay, no man can tell how; but the murd'rer with's sword in's hand is taken.
Ant. Is he of Milan?
Mor. No, of Verona: I heard his name, and I have forgot it.
Ant. I am all wonder; 'tis the slave, sure!
Mor. Lor—Lor—Lorenzo.
Abs. Ha, Lorenzo! What, I pray?
Mor. Lorenzo Me—Medico has run him in the eye, some thirty-three inches, two barleycorns: they could scarce know him for the blood, but by his apparel. I must find out my lady; he used our house; intelligence has been given of his pilgrimage thither. I am afraid I shall be singed to death with torches, and my lady stewed between two dishes.