_Abig._ For your sake and his own he's welcome hither. _Bar._ Daughter, a word more; kiss him, speak him fair, And like a cunning Jew so cast about, That ye be both made sure[73] ere you come out. [_Aside._ _Abig._ O father! Don Mathias is my love. 240 _Bar._ I know it: yet I say, make love to him; Do, it is requisite it should be so-- Nay, on my life, it is my factor's hand-- But go you in, I'll think upon the account. [_Exeunt_ ABIGAIL _and_ LODOWICK. The account is made, for Lodowick [he][74] dies. My factor sends me word a merchant's fled That owes me for a hundred tun of wine: I weigh it thus much [_snapping his fingers_]; I have wealth enough. For now by this has he kissed Abigail; And she vows love to him, and he to her. 250 As sure as heaven rained manna for the Jews, So sure shall he and Don Mathias die: His father was my chiefest enemy. _Enter_ MATHIAS. Whither goes Don Mathias? stay awhile. _Math._ Whither, but to my fair love Abigail? _Bar._ Thou know'st, and Heaven can witness this is true, That I intend my daughter shall be thine. _Math._ I, Barabas, or else thou wrong'st me much. _Bar._ O, Heaven forbid I should have such a thought. Pardon me though I weep: the Governor's son 260 Will, whether I will or no, have Abigail: He sends her letters, bracelets, jewels, rings. _Math._ Does she receive them? _Bar._ She? No, Mathias, no, but sends them back, And when he comes, she locks herself up fast; Yet through the keyhole will he talk to her, While she runs to the window looking out, When you should come and hale him from the door. _Math._ O treacherous Lodowick! _Bar._ Even now as I came home, he slipt me in, 270 And I am sure he is with Abigail. _Math._ I'll rouse him thence. _Bar._ Not for all Malta, therefore sheathe your sword; If you love me, no quarrels in my house; But steal you in, and seem to see him not; I'll give him such a warning ere he goes As he shall have small hopes of Abigail. Away, for here they come. _Enter_ LODOWICK _and_ ABIGAIL. _Math._ What, hand in hand! I cannot suffer this. _Bar._ Mathias, as thou lovest me, not a word. 280 _Math._ Well, let it pass, another time shall serve. [_Exit._ _Lod._ Barabas, is not that the widow's son? _Bar._ I, and take heed, for he hath sworn your death. _Lod._ My death? what, is the base-born peasant mad? _Bar._ No, no, but happily he stands in fear Of that which you, I think, ne'er dream upon, My daughter here, a paltry silly girl. _Lod._ Why, loves she Don Mathias? _Bar._ Doth she not with her smiling answer you?