“He’s right, Your Grace,” said Portia, having gathered her wits, I suppose. “This woman is an imposter.” She strode to me and snatched the fan from my hand. “Behold!” she said.

I snatched off her mustache. “Behold,” said I.

She grabbed the front of my gown with both hands and tore it down the front, revealing my black motley beneath. “Behold!” she said.

I took her poet’s shirt, and tore it down the front, revealing that she was wearing nothing whatsoever underneath. “Behold!” said I.

“Them are smashing,” said Drool, reaching under his skirt.

Portia, suddenly aware of the draft upon her bosoms, clutched herself and ran screaming from the room in a manner quite unmanly, but to her credit, inspiring great cheers from the gallery.

I pulled off the veil and stepped out of what was left of Portia’s dress, to many gasps and exclamations of surprise. I pulled my puppet stick from the pile of skirts.

“Drool, run along and see that Portia is out of distress.”

“Portia?” said Bassanio.

“Yes, she’s your wife, you bloody nitwit. You go, too.”

“Fortunato,” growled Iago, now trapped on the floor before the court.

“Fortunato?” said the doge, surprised, but pleased, I think. The other senators seemed less so.

“No one calls me that,” said I.

“We thought you had returned to France,” said the doge.

“Aye, which is what these two scoundrels wanted you to think, along with their partner, Brabantio.”

“He is mad,” said Iago. “You know how the fool drinks!”

“I was mad for a bit, Your Grace. When these two, with Brabantio, walled me up in his cellar, leaving me there to die, all because I was sent here by my queen to oppose the prosecution of a new Crusade, yes, madness was with me for a spell.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Iago. “I am a soldier. I have no say in the politics of war.”

“But you would, if you took command, wouldn’t you? Appointed by Brabantio.”

The doge stood now. “What are you saying, Fortunato? Brabantio was a beloved colleague and member of this council.”

“But he was not doge, was he?” said I.

Antonio had come out of his haze to see me standing before the doge. “I knew he was still alive. I told you!”

Iago winced, and turned a lens of hatred toward the merchant. “Of course he’s alive,” said the soldier through gritted teeth. “Why would he be other than alive?”

“Your Grace! My bond?” called Shylock. He was drawing his knife, which was now as red as the coals, from the fire.