Enter Monks and Inquisitors

First Inquisitor. My lord, you called.

Ebremar. Not I. This maid is dead.

First Monk. From poison, for you cannot trust these Moors. You're pale, my lord.

First Inquisitor. [aside] His lips are quivering. The flame that shone within his eyes but now Has flickered and gone out.

Ebremar. I am not well. 'Twill pass. I'll see the other prisoners now, And importune their souls to penitence, So they escape from hell. But pardon me. Your hood is threadbare—see that it be changed Before we take our seats above the crowd.

First Monk. I always said you could not trust these Moors.

[They go.]