Enter BARABAS above. BARABAS. O, bravely fought! and yet they thrust not home. Now, Lodovico! 93 now, Mathias!—So;           [Both fall.]      So, now they have shew'd themselves to be tall 94 fellows.            [Cries within] Part 'em, part 'em! BARABAS. Ay, part 'em now they are dead. Farewell, farewell!           [Exit above.]            Enter FERNEZE, KATHARINE, and ATTENDANTS. FERNEZE. What sight is this! 95 my Lodovico 96 slain! These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre. 97 KATHARINE. Who is this? my son Mathias slain! FERNEZE. O Lodowick, hadst thou perish'd by the Turk, Wretched Ferneze might have veng'd thy death! KATHARINE. Thy son slew mine, and I'll revenge his death. FERNEZE. Look, Katharine, look! thy son gave mine these wounds. KATHARINE. O, leave to grieve me! I am griev'd enough. FERNEZE. O, that my sighs could turn to lively breath, And these my tears to blood, that he might live! KATHARINE. Who made them enemies? FERNEZE. I know not; and that grieves me most of all. KATHARINE. My son lov'd thine. FERNEZE. And so did Lodowick him. KATHARINE. Lend me that weapon that did kill my son, And it shall murder me. FERNEZE. Nay, madam, stay; that weapon was my son's, And on that rather should Ferneze die. KATHARINE. Hold; let's inquire the causers of their deaths, That we may venge their blood upon their heads. FERNEZE. Then take them up, and let them be interr'd Within one sacred monument of stone; Upon which altar I will offer up My daily sacrifice of sighs and tears, And with my prayers pierce impartial heavens, Till they [reveal] the causers of our smarts, Which forc'd their hands divide united hearts. Come, Katharine; 98 our losses equal are; Then of true grief let us take equal share.           [Exeunt with the bodies.]            Enter ITHAMORE. 99 ITHAMORE. Why, was there ever seen such villany, So neatly plotted, and so well perform'd? Both held in hand, 100 and flatly both beguil'd? Enter ABIGAIL. ABIGAIL. Why, how now, Ithamore! why laugh'st thou so? ITHAMORE. O mistress! ha, ha, ha! ABIGAIL. Why, what ail'st thou? ITHAMORE. O, my master! ABIGAIL. Ha! ITHAMORE. O mistress, I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtle, bottle-nosed 101 knave to my master, that ever gentleman had! ABIGAIL. Say, knave, why rail'st upon my father thus? ITHAMORE. O, my master has the bravest policy! ABIGAIL. Wherein? ITHAMORE. Why, know you not? ABIGAIL. Why, no. ITHAMORE. Know you not of Mathia[s'] and Don Lodowick['s] disaster? ABIGAIL. No:  what was 

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