_Mont._ Nay, hear me; You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano-- Alas, I make but repetition Of what is ordinary and Rialto talk, And ballated, and would be played o' the stage, But that vice many times finds such loud friends That preachers are charmed silent.-- You gentlemen, Flamineo and Marcello, The court hath nothing now to charge you with Only you must remain upon your sureties For your appearance. _Fran. de Med._ I stand for Marcello. _Flam._ And my lord duke for me. _Mont._ For you, Vittoria, your public fault, Joined to the condition of the present time, Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity; Such a corrupted trial have you made Both of your life and beauty, and been styled No less an ominous fate than blazing stars To princes: here's your sentence; you are confined Unto a house of convertites, and your bawd-- _Flam._ [_Aside_]. Who, I? _Mont._ The Moor. _Flam._ [_Aside_]. O, I am a sound man again. _Vit. Cor._ A house of convertites! what's that? _Mont._ A house Of penitent whores. _Vit. Cor._ Do the noblemen in Rome Erect it for their wives, that I am sent To lodge there? _Fran. de Med._ You must have patience. _Vit. Cor._ I must first have vengeance. I fain would know if you have your salvation By patent, that you proceed thus. _Mont._ Away with her! Take her hence. _Vit. Cor._ A rape! a rape! _Mont._ How! _Vit. Cor._ Yes, you have ravished justice; Forced her to do your pleasure. _Mont._ Fie, she's mad! _Vit. Cor._ Die with these pills in your most cursèd maw Should bring you health! or while you sit o' the bench Let your own spittle choke you!-- _Mont._ She's turned Fury. _Vit. Cor._ That the last day of judgment may so find you, And leave you the same devil you were before! Instruct me, some good horse-leech, to speak treason; For since you cannot take my life for deeds, Take it for words: O woman's poor revenge, Which dwells but in the tongue! I will not weep; No, I do scorn to call up one poor tear To fawn on your injustice; bear me hence Unto this house of--what's your mitigating title? _Mont._ Of convertites. _Vit. Cor._ It shall not be a house of convertites; My mind shall make it honester to me Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable Than thy soul, though thou art a cardinal. Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spite, Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light.[56] [_Exeunt_ VITTORIA COROMBONA, Lawyer, _and_ Guards. _Re-enter_ BRACHIANO. _Brach._ Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake hands In a friend's grave together; a fit place, Being the emblem of soft peace, to atone our hatred. _Fran. de Med._ Sir, what's the matter? _Brach._ I will not chase more blood from that loved cheek; You have lost too much already: fare you well. [_Exit._ _Fran. de Med._ How strange these words sound! what's the interpretation?