BAL. How now, my lord? what makes you rise so soon?
LOR. Fear of preventing our mishaps too late.
BAL. What mischief is it that we not mistrust?
LOR. Our greatest ills we least mistrust, my lord,
And unexpected harms do hurt us most.
BAL. Why, tell me, Don Lorenz,—tell me, man,
If aught concerns our honour and your own!
LOR. Nor you nor me, my lord, but both in one;
But I suspect—and the presumptions great—
That by those base confed'rates in our fault
Touching the death of Don Horatio
We are all betray'd to old Hieronimo.
BAL. Betray'd, Lorenzo? tush! it cannot be.
LOR. A guilty conscience urged with the thought
Of former evils, easily cannot err:
I am persuaded—and dissuade me not—
That all's revealed to Hieronimo.
And therefore know that I have cast it thus—
[Enter PAGE.]
But here's the page. How now? what news with thee?