Enter Provost & Guard, with Barnavelt.
Vand. 'Tis high time, Sir.
Prov. Roome for the Prisoner!
Vand. Bring him in; Sit downe, Sir, And take your last place with us.
Bar. 'Tis your forme And I infringe no order.
Bred. Mounseiur Barnavelt,
Will ye confes yet freely your bad practises
And lay those Instruments open to the World,
Those bloody and bold Instruments you wrought by?
Mercy may sleepe awhile but never dyes, Sir.
Bar. I have spoake all I can, and seald that all With all I have to care for now, my Conscience. More I beseech your honours—
Or. Take your pleasure.
Vand. You will give us no more lights: What this world gives you, To morrow thus we take away. Receive it.
Bar. My Sentence?