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He shall not perish by the assassin's hand.

So that he perish, little matters how.

The tumult would be fearful.

Even now The people gather fiercely in the streets.

Let them not see him, they will soon forget.

Hark to the shouts!

I have a useful knave, who, give him gold, Stabs and forgets; I'll send him to the prison.

The noise approaches, look ye to your swords.

Delay is fatal—let Castruccio die! (While he is speaking the doors are burst open, and enters, armed and attended.

Not yet, nor by your hand! Thanks, gentlemen, For an indifferent lodging. I have learnt That prisons, tenanted with thoughts of death, Is not a punishment to order lightly; Therefore, ye shall not fill my vacant place.

The game is yours—I, for one, ask not mercy!