ITHAMORE. Do nothing: but I know what I know; he's a murderer. BELLAMIRA. I had not thought he had been so brave a man. ITHAMORE. You knew Mathias and the governor's son; he and I killed 'em both, and yet never touched 'em. PILIA-BORZA. O, bravely done! ITHAMORE. I carried the broth that poisoned the nuns; and he and I, snicle hand too fast, strangled a friar. [172] BELLAMIRA. You two alone? ITHAMORE. We two; and 'twas never known, nor never shall be for me. PILIA-BORZA. This shall with me unto the governor. [Aside to BELLAMIRA.] BELLAMIRA. And fit it should: but first let's ha' more gold.-- [Aside to PILIA-BORZA.] Come, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap. ITHAMORE. Love me little, love me long: let music rumble, Whilst I in thy incony [173] lap do tumble. Enter BARABAS, disguised as a French musician, with a lute, and a nosegay in his hat. BELLAMIRA. A French musician!--Come, let's hear your skill. BARABAS. Must tuna my lute for sound, twang, twang, first. ITHAMORE. Wilt drink, Frenchman? here's to thee with a--Pox on this drunken hiccup! BARABAS. Gramercy, monsieur. BELLAMIRA. Prithee, Pilia-Borza, bid the fiddler give me the posy in his hat there. PILIA-BORZA. Sirrah, you must give my mistress your posy. BARABAS. A votre commandement, madame. [Giving nosegay.] BELLAMIRA. How sweet, my Ithamore, the flowers smell! ITHAMORE. Like thy breath, sweetheart; no violet like 'em. PILIA-BORZA. Foh! methinks they stink like a hollyhock. [174] BARABAS. So, now I am reveng'd upon 'em all: The scent thereof was death; I poison'd it. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. Play, fiddler, or I'll cut your cat's guts into chitterlings. BARABAS. Pardonnez moi, be no in tune yet: so, now, now all be in. ITHAMORE. Give him a crown, and fill me out more wine. PILIA-BORZA. There's two crowns for thee: play. [Giving money.] BARABAS. How liberally the villain gives me mine own gold! [Aside, and then plays.] PILIA-BORZA. Methinks he fingers very well. BARABAS. So did you when you stole my gold. [Aside.] PILIA-BORZA. How swift he runs! BARABAS. You run swifter when you threw my gold out of my window. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Musician, hast been in Malta long? BARABAS. Two, three, four month, madam. ITHAMORE. Dost not know a Jew, one Barabas? BARABAS. Very mush: monsieur, you no be his man? PILIA-BORZA. His man! ITHAMORE. I scorn the peasant: tell him so. BARABAS. He knows it already. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. 'Tis a strange thing of that Jew, he lives upon pickled grasshoppers and sauced mushrooms. [175] BARABAS. What a slave's this! the governor feeds not as I do. [Aside.]