SCENE VII.—AN ANTI-CHAMBER.
Enter Wortimerus and Catagrinus.
Wort. Shall we, in quiet, tamely suffer this?
See our most excellent, most gentle mother,
In bold defiance of all sacred laws,
Thus basely treated?
Cata. Do they, then, think our substance form’d of flint?
Or that our hearts are adamant itself?
Where is our brother?—where our dearest sister?
I fear, indeed, they had just cause for flight.