LOR. Nor you nor me, my lord, but both in one;
But I suspect -- and the presumptions great --
That by those base confederates in our fault
Touching the death of Don Horatio
We are all betraide to olde Hieronimo.

BAL. Betraide, Lorenzo? tush! it cannot be.

LOR. A guiltie conscience vrged with the thought
Of former euils, easily cannot erre:
I am perswaded -- and diswade me not --
That als reuealed to Hieronimo.
And therefore know that I haue cast it thus --

[Enter PAGE.]

But heeres the page. How now? what newes with thee?

PAGE. My lord, Serberine is slaine.

BAL. Who? Serberine, my man?

PAGE. Your Highnes man, my lord.

LOR. Speak, page: who murdered him?

PAGE. He that is apprehended for the fact.

LOR. Who?