Eliot. Death here without repentance, hell hereafter.
Ren. Let that be my lot, if as here I stand,
Listed by fate amongst her darling sons,
Though I had one only brother, dear by all
The strictest ties of nature; though one hour
Had given us birth, one fortune fed our wants,
One only love, and that but of each other,
Still filled our minds,—could I have such a friend
Joined in this cause, and had but ground to fear
He meant foul play, may this right hand drop from me,
If I'd not hazard all my future peace,
And stab him to the heart before you. Who,
Who would do less? wouldst not thou, Pierre, the same?
Pier. You've singled me, sir, out for this hard question,
As if 'twere started only for my sake.
Am I the thing you fear? Here, here's my bosom,
Search it with all your swords! Am I a traitor?
Ren. No; but I fear your late-commended friend
Is little less. Come, sirs, 'tis now no time
To trifle with our safety. Where's this Jaffier?
Spin. He left the room just now in strange disorder.
Ren. Nay, there is danger in him: I observed him,
During the time I took for explanation.
He was transported from most deep attention
To a confusion which he could not smother;
His looks grew full of sadness and surprise,
All which betrayed a wavering spirit in him,
That laboured with reluctancy and sorrow.
What's requisite for safety must be done
With speedy execution: he remains
Yet in our power: I for my own part wear
A dagger.
Pier. Well.
Ren. And I could wish it—
Pier. Where?
Ren. Buried in his heart.