Pier. Away! we're yet all friends;
No more of this, 'twill breed ill blood amongst us.
Spin. Let us all draw our swords, and search the house,
Pull him from the dark hole where he sits brooding
O'er his cold fears, and each man kill his share of him.
Pier. Who talks of killing? Who's he'll shed the blood
That's dear to me? Is't you? or you? or you, sir?
What, not one speak? how you stand gaping all
On your grave oracle, your wooden god there!
Yet not a word. Then, sir—[To Renault]—I'll tell you a secret;—
Suspicion's but at best a coward's virtue!
Ren. A coward! [Handles his sword.
Pier. Put, put up thy sword, old man,
Thy hand shakes at it. Come, let's heal this breach,
I am too hot; we yet may all live friends.
Spin. Till we are safe, our friendship cannot be so.
Pier. Again? who's that?
Spin. 'Twas I.
Theo. And I.
Rev. And I.