Whats heere? a letter? Tush, it is not so! A letter for Hieronimo. [Reads] "For want of incke receiue this bloudie writ. Me hath my haples brother hid from thee. Reuenge thy-selfe on Balthazar and him, For these were they that murdered thy sonne. Hieronimo, reuenge Horatios death, And better fare then Bel-imperia doth!"-- What meanes this vnexpected miracle? My sonne slaine by Lorenzo and the prince? What cause had they Horatio to maligne? Or what might mooue thee, Bel-imperia, To accuse they brother, had he beene the meane? Hieronimo, beware! thou art betraide, And to intrap they life this traine is laide. Aduise thee therefore, be not credulous: This is deuised to endanger thee, That thou, by this, Lorenzo shoulst accuse. And he, for thy dishonour done, show draw Thy life in question and thy name in hate. Deare was the life of my beloved sonne, And of his death behoues me to be aueng'd: Then hazard not thine own, Hieronimo, But liue t'effect thy resolution! I therefore will by circumstances trie What I can gather to confirme this writ, And, [harken] neere the Duke of Castiles house, Close if I can with Belimperia, To listen more, but nothing to bewray. Enter PEDRINGANO. Now, Predringano! PED. Now, Hieronimo! HIERO. Wheres thy lady? PED. I know not; heers my lord. Enter LORENZO. LOR. How now, whose this? Hieronimo? HIERO. My lord. PED. He asketh me for my lady Bel-imperia. LOR. What to doo, Hieronimo? Vse me. [Dialogue from the undated and the 'A' manuscript.] HIERO. Oh, no, my lord, I dare not, it must not be; I humbly thank your lordship. [End of insertion.] [Dialogue from the 1618, 1623, and 1633 editions.] HIERO. Who? You, my lord? I reserue your favour for a greater honour; This is a very toy, my lord, a toy. LOR. All's one, Hieronimo; acquaint me with it. HIERO. Y faith, my lord, tis an idle thing. I must confesse I ha bin too slacke, too tardy, To remisse vnto your Honour. LOR. How now, Hieronimo? HIERO. In troth, my lord, it is a thing of nothing: The murder of a sonne or so, my lord,-- A thing of nothing. [End of insertion.] LOR. Why then, farewell! HIERO. My griefe in hart, my thoughts no tung can tell. Exit. LOR. Come hither, Pedringano; seest thou this? PED. My lord, I see it, and suspect it too. LOR. This is that damned villain Serberine, That hath, I feare, reuealde Horatios death. PED. My lord, he could not; twas so lately done, And since he hath not left my company.