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(Balthazar paces a while, in medieval clothes, clutching a dim lantern, until his brother approaches from the other direction.)

Balthazar: Halt! Who goes there?

Jedediah: Your brother, and your mortal enemy.

Balthazar: That you are my brother, I doubt not. And that we are mortal, I regret, since perforce, one must stand at the other’s grave, unless, by chance, we end our days as we began, in the same hour. And as for enemies, despite our masters� enmity, surely not, unless it is as rivals for our mother’s love, who overflows with that�

Jedediah: As she does with everything.

Balthazar: Welcome back, brother.

Jedediah: Bah.

Balthazar: What news of Venice?

Jedediah: Shylock is dead.

Balthazar: Oh worthy man, how so? And such a doting father.

Jedediah: Or it’s as if he were, his daughter