Des. I'll not be tamely butcher'd, coward. Without there!
Help, help, help!
De F. Whirlwinds and earthquakes cannot do it.
Think on thy sin.
Cle. Thy perjury.
De F. Thy lust. [Cleara stabs at him.
Des. Cleara! O, thou hast a skilful hand in
Murder. Help, help! murder!
De F. So falls a wretched statue from its haughty station, when Fate would make it ominous and fright a state. What a thick cloud steams from his tainted blood! The air shrinks back, and with dull wings fans it from heaven.
Enter De Loome, La Gitterne, Torguina, &c.
Tor. Murder, murder! 'twas his voice.
De L. It was his voice.