Count Alarcos; a Tragedy Part 21

The moon's a sluggard, I think, to-night. How now, the Moor that dodged My steps at vespers. Hem! I like not this.

Friends beneath cloaks; they're wanted. Save you, sir?

III:3:24 ORAN.

And you, sir?

III:3:25 ALAR.

Not the first time we have met, Or I've no eye for lurkers.

III:3:26 ORAN.

I have tasted Our common heritage, the air, to-day; And if the selfsame beam warmed both our bloods, What then?

III:3:27 ALAR.

Why nothing; but the sun has set, And honest men should seek their hearths.

III:3:28 ORAN.

I wait My friends.

[The BRAVOs rush in, and a.s.sault COUNT ALARCOS, who, dropping his Cloak, shows his Sword already drawn, and keeps them at bay.]

So, so! who plays with princes' blood?

No sport for varlets. Thus and thus, I'll teach ye To know your station.

III:3:29 1ST BRAVO.

Ah!

III:3:30 2ND BRAVO.

Away!

III:3:31 3RD BRAVO.

Fly, fly!

III:3:32 4TH BRAVO.

No place for quiet men.

[The BRAVOs run off.]

III:3:33 ALAR.

A little breath Is all they have cost me, tho' their blood has stained My damask blade. And still the Moor! What ho!

Why fliest not like thy mates?

III:3:34 ORAN.

Because I wait To fight.

III:3:35 ALAR.

Rash caitiff! knowest thou who I am?

III:3:36 ORAN.

One who I heard was brave, and now has proved it.

III:3:37 ALAR.

Am I thy foe?

III:3:38 ORAN.

No more than all thy race.

III:3:39 ALAR.

Go, save thy life.

III:3:40 ORAN.

Look to thine own, proud lord.

III:3:41 ALAR.

Perdition catch thy base-born insolence.

[They fight: after a long and severe encounter, ALARCOS disarms ORAN, who falls wounded.]

III:3:42 ORAN.

Be brief, dispatch me.

III:3:43 ALAR.

Not a word for mercy?

III:3:44 ORAN.

Why should'st thou give it?

III:3:45 ALAR.

'Tis not merited, Yet might be gained. Who set thee on to this?

My sword is at thy throat. Give me his name, And thine shall live.

III:3:46 ORAN.

I cannot.

III:3:47 ALAR.

What, is life So light a boon? It hangs upon this point.

Bold Moor, is't then thy love to him who fees thee Makes thee so faithful?

III:3:48 ORAN.

No; I hate him.

III:3:49 ALAR.

What Restrains thee, then?

III:3:50 ORAN.

The feeling that restrained My arm from joining stabbers--Honour.

III:3:51 ALAR.

Humph!

An overseer of stabbers for some ducats.

And is that honour?