Philip.
I fear'd, alas, you would run mad and rave.
Why do you blame me that I am not dead?
I risk'd my Life, was wounded for your Sake,
Did all I could for your Monelia's Safety,
And to revenge you on her Murderers.
Your Grief distracts you, or you'd thank me for 't.
Chekitan.
Would you still tempt my Rage, and fire my Soul,
Already bent to spill your treacherous Blood?
You base Dissembler! know you are detected,
Torax still lives, and has discover'd all.
[Philip starts and trembles.
Philip.
Torax alive!—It cannot—must not be.
[Aside.
Chekitan.
Well may you shake—You cannot mend your Blow.
He lived to see, what none but you could think of,
The bloody Knife drawn from Monelia's Breast.
Had you a thousand Lives, they'd be too few;
Had you a Sea of Blood, 't would be too small
To wash away your deep-dy'd Stain of Guilt.
Now you shall die; and Oh, if there be Powers
That after Death take Vengeance on such Crimes,
May they pursue you with their Flames of Wrath,
Till all their Magazines of Pain are spent.