Lor. What, are you become a statist's daughter[359] or a prophetess? Whence have you this intelligence?
Moc. I hope she will not betray me. [Aside.
Luc. If murder can exact it, 'tis absolutely lost.
Lor. How, murder!
Luc. Yes, he conspired the other day with a bravo, a cut-throat, to take away the life of a noble innocent gentleman, which is since discovered by miracle: the same that came with music to my window.
Moc. All's out; I'm ruined in her confession! That man that trusts woman with a privacy, and hopes for silence, he may as well expect it at the fall of a bridge![360] A secret with them is like a viper; 'twill make way, though it eat through the bowels of them. [Aside.
Lor. Take heed how you traduce a person of his rank and eminency: a scar in a mean man becomes a wound in a greater.
Luc. There he is, question him; and if he deny it, get him examined.
Lor. Why, signor, is this true?
Æmi. His silence betrays him: 'tis so.