Camillo.—I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew (If he now lived he would be just her age; His hair, too, was her color, and his eyes Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep) As that most perfect image of God's love That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. She is as pure as speechless infancy!
Judge.—Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, If you forbid the rack. His Holiness Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime By the severest forms of law; nay even To stretch a point against the criminals. The prisoners stand accused of parricide Upon such evidence as justifies Torture.
Beatrice.—What evidence? This man's?
Judge.—Even so.
Beatrice (to Marzio).—Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent?
Marzio.—I am Marzio, Thy father's vassal.
Beatrice.—Fix thine eyes on mine; Answer to what I ask. (Turning to the Judges.) I prithee mark His countenance: unlike bold calumny Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends His gaze on the blind earth. (To Marzio.) What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father?
Marzio.—Oh! Spare me! My brain swims round ... I cannot speak ... It was that horrid torture forced the truth. Take me away! Let her not look on me! I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die!
Beatrice.—My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two-edged instrument Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, For my own death? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected So trivial a precaution, as the making His tomb the keeper of a secret written On a thief's memory? What is his poor life? What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! (Turning to Marzio.) And thou ...
Marzio.—Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, Wound worse than torture.