MES. Aye, my good lord.
LOR. What would he with us?
[Reads the letter.]
He writes us here
To stand good lord and help him in distress.
Tell him I have his letters, know his mind;
And what we may, let him assure him of.
Fellow, be gone; my boy shall follow thee.
Exit MESSENGER.
[Aside] This works like wax! Yet once more try thy wits.—
Boy, go convey this purse to Pedringano,—
Thou know'st the prison,—closely give it him,
And be advis'd that none be thereabout.
Bid him be merry still, but secret;
And, though the marshall sessions be today,
Bid him not doubt of his delivery.
Tell him his pardon is already sign'd,
And thereon bid him boldly be resolv'd;
For, were he ready to be turned off,—
As 'tis my will the uttermost be tried,—
Thou with his pardon shalt attend him still.
Show him this box, tell him his pardon's in't;
But open't not, and if thou lov'st thy life,
But let him wisely keep his hopes unknown.
He shall not want while Don Lorenzo lives.
Away!
PAGE. I go, my lord, I run!
LOR. But, sirrah, see that this be cleanly done.
Exit PAGE.
Now stands our fortune on a tickle point,
And now or never ends Lorenzo's doubts.
One only thing is uneffected yet,
And that's to see the executioner,—
But to what end? I list not trust the air
With utterance of our pretence therein,
For fear the privy whisp'ring of the wind
Convey our words amongst unfriendly ears,
That lie too open to advantages.
Et quel che voglio io, nessun lo sa,
Intendo io quel mi bastera.