not be sold like slaves. Pierre. (C.) One such word more, by Heaven, I'll to the senate, And hang ye all, like dogs, in clusters. Why peep your coward swords half out their sheaths? Why do you not all brandish them like mine? You fear to die, and yet dare talk of killing. [Going, L. Ren. (R. C.) Go to the senate, and betray us—haste! Secure thy wretched life; we fear to die Less than thou dar'st be honest. Pierre. That's rank falsehood. Fear'st thou not death? Fie, there's a knavish itch In that salt blood, an utter foe to smarting! Had Jaffier's wife proved kind, he'd still been true. Faugh—how that stinks!       [Exit Renault, R.       "Thou die? thou kill my friend?      "Or thou? with that lean, withered, wretched face!"      Away, disperse all to your several charges, And meet to-morrow, where your honour calls you.       [Retiring to M. D. I'll bring that man whose blood you so much thirst for, [36]     And you shall see him venture for you fairly—      Hence, hence, I say! Spin. I fear we've been to blame, And done too much. Theo. 'Twas too far urged against the man you love Elliot. Forgive us, gallant friend. Pierre. [Advancing.] Nay, now you've found The way to melt, and cast me as you will. I 'll fetch this friend, and give him to your mercy;      Nay, he shall die, if you will take him from me; For your repose, I'll quit my heart's best jewel; But would not have him torn away by villains, And spiteful villainy. Spin. [And other Conspirators stand, R.] No; may ye both Forever live, and fill the world with fame! Pierre. Now, you're too kind. Whence arose all this discord? Oh! what a dangerous precipice have we 'scaped! How near a fall was all we'd long been building! What an eternal blot had stained our glories, If one, the bravest and the best of men, Had fall'n a sacrifice to rash suspicion, Butchered by those, whose cause he came to cherish! Oh, could you know him all, as I have known him, How good he is, how just, how true, how brave, You would not leave this place, till you had seen him, And gained remission for the worst of follies. Come but to-morrow, all your doubts shall end, And to your loves, me better recommend, That I've preserved your fame, and saved my friend.       [Exeunt Conspirators, R., Pierre L END OF ACT III. 

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