Enter Officers, Pierre, and Guards, a Friar, Executioner, and a great Rabble.
Offi. Room, room there—stand all by, make room
for the prisoner.
Pier. My friend not come yet?
Friar. Why are you so obstinate?
Pier. Why you so troublesome, that a poor wretch
Can't die in peace,
But you like ravens will be croaking round him?
Pier. I tell thee Heaven and I are friends:
I ne'er broke peace with it yet, by cruel murders,
Rapine or perjury, or vile deceiving;
But lived in moral justice towards all men;
Nor am a foe to the most strong believers,
Howe'er my own short-sighted faith confine me.
Friar. But an all-seeing Judge—
Pier. You say my conscience
Must be my accuser: I have searched that conscience,
And find no records there of crimes that scare me.
Friar. 'Tis strange you should want faith.