See, here he is.  I do not use this, yet I know not how, I cannot chuse but weep to see him; his very Enemies I think, whose wounds have bred his fame, if they should see him now, would find tears i’their eyes.

Arb.

  I cannot utter it, why should I keep
  A breast to harbour thoughts?  I dare not speak. 
  Darkness is in my bosom, and there lie
  A thousand thoughts that cannot brook the light: 
  How wilt thou vex ’em when this deed is done,
  Conscience, that art afraid to let me name it?

Mar.

  How do you Sir?

Arb.

  Why very well Mardonius, how dost thou do?

Mar.

  Better than you I fear.

Arb.

  I hope thou art; for to be plain with thee,
  Thou art in Hell else, secret scorching flames
  That far transcend earthly material fires
  Are crept into me, and there is no cure. 
  Is it not strange Mardonius, there’s no cure?

Mar.

  Sir, either I mistake, or there is something hid
  That you would utter to me.

Arb.

  So there is, but yet I cannot do it.

Mar.

Out with it Sir, if it be dangerous, I will not shrink to do you service, I shall not esteem my life a weightier matter than indeed it is, I know it is subject to more chances than it has hours, and I were better lose it in my Kings cause, than with an ague, or a fall, or sleeping, to a Thief; as all these are probable enough:  let me but know what I shall do for you.

Arb.

  It will not out:  were you with Gobrias,
  And bad him give my Sister all content
  The place affords, and give her leave to send
  And speak to whom she please?

Mar.

  Yes Sir, I was.

Arb.

  And did you to Bacurius say as much
  About Tigranes?

Mar.

  Yes.

Arb.

  That’s all my business.

Mar.

  O say not so,
  You had an answer of this before;
  Besides I think this business might
  Be utter’d more carelesly.

Arb.

  Come thou shalt have it out, I do beseech thee
  By all the love thou hast profest to me,
  To see my Sister from me.

Mar.

  Well, and what?

Arb.

  That’s all.

Mar.

  That’s strange, I shall say nothing to her?

Arb.

  Not a word;
  But if thou lovest me, find some subtil way
  To make her understand by signs.

Mar.

  But what shall I make her understand?

Arb.

  O Mardonius, for that I must be pardon’d.

Mar.