Home, home! To die at home and rest my head!HECTOR.Nay, die not, friend. We have enough of dead.THRACIAN.How can I live? Lost, and my master slain.HECTOR.My house will shelter thee and heal thy pain.THRACIAN.Thy house? Will murderers’ nursing give me peace?HECTOR.Still the same tale! This man will never cease.THRACIAN.My curse rest—not on Hector, but on thoseWho stabbed us, as thou say’st.—Ah, Justice knows!P. 48, 1. 876, Justice knows.]—It is a clever touch to leave the Thracian still only half-convinced and grumbling.HECTOR.There, lift him.—Bear him to my house. Take pains,If care can do it, that the man complains