Mark’s Square, where we would catch a ferry home, across the tronchetto. Since we’d left the notary with Antonio’s signed bond, Shylock had not said a word about knowing who I was. I was carrying a small cask of wine, and although it was not terribly heavy, keeping balanced on Jessica’s platforms was some challenge. “So,” said I. “Just chopping random bits off a bloke, something you Jews do a lot then?” “It was your idea to take his manhood, Lancelot Gobbo. No man would agree to such a bargain. An arm, a leg, a random pound of flesh, yes. I merely made salvage of your folly. I am surprised that Antonio would put his bond to it. His need exceeds appearances.” “Why does he need to borrow funds from you? He said it is for his friend?” “For the young man Bassanio, who proposed such a loan to me on the Rialto this morning. He says he would use it as a bride price for the lady Portia of Belmont, and Antonio staked him to it.
