Isidore. But now I should have cursed the man who told me
You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse—
But this I can not do.

Ordonio. Where lies your scruple? [60]

Isidore. Why—why, my lord!
You know you told me that the lady lov'd you,
Had loved you with incautious tenderness;
That if the young man, her betrothéd husband,
Returned, yourself, and she, and the honour of both [65]
Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples
Than those which being native to the heart,
Than those, my lord, which merely being a man—

Ordonio. This fellow is a Man—he killed for hire
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples! 70
[Then turning to Isidore.
[[837]] These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering—
Pish, fool! thou blunder'st through the book of guilt,
Spelling thy villainy.

Isidore. My lord—my lord,
I can bear much—yes, very much from you!
But there's a point where sufferance is meanness: [75]
I am no villain—never kill'd for hire—
My gratitude——

Ordonio. O aye—your gratitude!
'Twas a well-sounding word—what have you done with it?

Isidore. Who proffers his past favours for my virtue—

Ordonio. Virtue——

Isidore. Tries to o'erreach me—is a very sharper, [80]
And should not speak of gratitude, my lord.
I knew not 'twas your brother!

Ordonio. And who told you?