Balthazar.
What mischief is it that we not mistrust?
Lorenzo.
Our greatest ills we least mistrust, my lord,
And inexpected harms do hurt us most.
Balthazar.
Why, tell me, Don Lorenzo—tell me, man—
If aught concerns our honour and your own?
Lorenzo.
Nor[164] you, nor me, my lord, but both in one:
For I suspect, and the presumption's great,
That by those base confederates in our fault,
Touching the death of Don Horatio,
We are betray'd to old Hieronimo.
Balthazar.
Betray'd, Lorenzo? tush! it cannot be.