The years have yielded up that hour so long
And bitterly awaited. Thou must die!
Say. Thou wouldst not slay me, fellow!
Aylmere. Slay thee! Ay, by this light, as thou wouldst slay
A wolf! Bethink thee; hast not used thy place
To tread the weak and poor to dust; to plant
Shame on each cheek, and sorrow in each heart?
Hast thou not plundered, tortured, hunted down
Thy fellow-men like brutes? Is not the blood
Of white-haired Cade black on thy hand? And doth not