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I thank your gen'rous care. But, Don Henriquez, Though born of blood less noble than your own, An outlaw's fate, from friends and country banish'd, My honest fame blurr'd with imputed guilt, Is not deliv'rance such as I accept, Such as a true Castilian can accept, You offer it in pity of my youth, Therefore I thank you; but I'll here abide Such vindication as becomes mine honour.

But should it fail thee, canst thou better brook A malefactor's death, the public gaze, The scaffold's open shame, the executioner, All the degrading ministry of death; Even that which so attainteth noble blood That ages wear not out th' abhorr'd blot, Disgracing all thy line? Ay, think of this: It makes me shudder as I utter it, Who have in battle faced all dreadful things.

In truth, it makes your strengthen'd features wear A ghastly hue of horror. How is this, That such strong sympathy should move you so? You think me guiltless in the very front Of proof that should condemn me: then, belike, Some shrewd suspicion of the actual hand That did th' accursed deed lurks in your mind.