Denis. Never woorse—the fryar, Syr—
D'Av. What of him?
Denis. The slave that would not leive the place but carried, Is of himself com back.
D'Av. Whether?
Denis. Looke theere.
D'Av. That which I took to bee meare fantasy
I finde nowe to bee real; murder is
A cryinge sinne, and canot be conceal'd.
Yet his returne is straunge.
Denis, 'Tis most prodigious; The very thought of it hath put a cricke Into my necke allredy.
D'Av. One further desperate tryall I will make And putt it too adventer.
Denis. Pray hows that, Syr?
D'Av. There's in my stable an ould stallion, once A lusty horse but now past servyce.