Lorenzo.
So he is in prison[168] then?
Messenger.
Ay, my good lord.
Lorenzo.
What would he with us?
He writes us here, To stand, good lord, and help him in distress.
Tell him, I have his letters, know his mind;
And what we may, let him assure him of.
Fellow, begone; my boy shall follow thee.
[Exit Messenger.
This works like wax; yet once more try thy wits.
Boy, go, convey this purse to Pedringano;
Thou know'st the prison, closely give it him,
And be advis'd that none be there about:
Bid him be merry still, but secret;
And though the marshal[169]-sessions be to-day,
Bid him not doubt of his delivery;
Tell him, his pardon is already sign'd:
And thereon bid him boldly be resolv'd;
For were he ready to be turned off
(As 'tis my will the uttermost be try'd),
Thou with his pardon shalt attend him still:
Show him this box, tell him his pardon's in't;
But open't not, and if thou lov'st thy life:
But let him wisely keep his hopes unknown,
He shall not want, while Don Lorenzo lives.
Away!
Page.
I go, my lord, I run.