The body is instantly cut down, but life is extinct.--The rest
of the play, from the beginning of the third act, is concerned with
Hieronimo's revenge. It is a terrible story. His first information as to
the names of the murderers reaches him in a message, written in blood,
from Bell'-Imperia. This, however, he fears as a trap, and attempts to
corroborate it from the girl's own lips. Unfortunately he only succeeds
in awakening the suspicions of Lorenzo, who, to make the secret surer,
bribes Pedringano to murder Serberine, at the same time arranging for
watchmen to arrest Pedringano. Balthazar is drawn into the matter that
he may press forward the execution of Serberine's murderer, while
Lorenzo poses to the wretch as his friend with promises of pardon.
Pedringano consequently is beguiled to death. Lorenzo is now at ease,
and enlarges his sister's liberty. The suggestion of a political
marriage between her and Balthazar is warmly supported by the king.
Alone among the courtiers Hieronimo is plunged in unabated grief,
uncertain where to seek revenge. By good fortune Pedringano, before his
trial, wrote a confession, which the hangman finds and delivers to the
Marshal. This corroborates the statement of Bell'-Imperia. Yet it brings
small comfort, as it seems impossible to strike so high as at Lorenzo
and Balthazar. In his despair Hieronimo contemplates suicide, until he
remembers that the act would leave the murderers unpunished. He cries
aloud before the king for justice, digs frantically into the earth with
his dagger in mad excess of misery, then hurries away without telling
his wrong. He haunts his garden at night-time; and in the silence of
that darkness at last hits upon a scheme: under the appearance of
quietness and simplicity he will return to Lorenzo's society, awaiting
his time to strike. As if to soothe him with the thought that his griefs
are shared by others, chance brings before him one, Bazulto, an old man
also bereaved of his son by murder. The reminder, however, is too sharp:
Hieronimo becomes temporarily mad, mistaking Bazulto for Horatio and
uttering pathetic laments over the change that has passed over his
youthful beauty.

Sweet boy, how art thou chang'd in death's black shade!
Had Proserpine no pity on thy youth,
But suffer'd thy fair crimson-colour'd spring
With withered winter to be blasted thus?
Horatio, thou art older than thy father.

When the fit passes, he and Bazulto go