_Scæna Quarta._ _Enter_ Gomera, Mountferrat, Rocca, Abdella, _with a Pistol_. _Gom._ Here's even ground, I'll stir no foot beyond it, Before I have thy head. _Mount._ Draw _Rocca_. _Gom._ Coward, Hath inward guilt, robb'd thee as well of courage As honesty? that without odds thou dar'st not Answer a single Enemy? _Mount._ All advantage That I can take, expect. _Roc._ We know you are valiant, Nor do we purpose to make farther trial Of what you can do now: but to dispatch you. _Mount._ And therefore fight, and pray together. _Gom._ Villains, Whose baseness, all disgraceful words made one, Cannot express; so strong is the good cause That seconds me, that you shall feel, with horror To your proud hopes, what strength is in that arm, Though old, that holds a sword made sharp by justice. _Ab._ You come then here, to prate? [_Fight._ _Mount._ Help _Rocca_, now, Or I am lost for ever; how comes this? Are villany and weakness twyns? _Roc._ I am gone too. _Gom._ You shall not scape me, wretches. _Ab._ I must do it, All will go wrong else. [_Shoots him._ _[G]om._ Treacherous bloody woman, What hast thou done? _Ab._ Done a poor womans part, And in an instant, what these men so long Stood fooling for. _Mount._ This ayd was unexpected, I kiss thee for't. _Roc._ His right arms only shot, And that compell'd him to forsake his sword, He's else unwounded. _Mount._ Cut his throat. _Ab._ Forbear. Yet do not hope 'tis with intent to save thee. But that thou mayst live to thy farther torment, To see who triumphs over thee: come _Mountferrat_, Here join thy foot to mine, and let our hearts Meet with our hands, the contract that is made And cemented with blood, as this of ours is, Is a more holy sanction, and much surer, Than all the superstitious ceremonies You _Christians_ use. _Enter_ Norandine. _Roc._ Who's this? _Mount._ Betray'd again? _Nor._ By the report it made, and by the wind The Pistol was discharg'd here. _Gom. Norandine._ As ever thou lov'st valor, or wear'st Arms To punish baseness, shew it. _Nor._ O the devil, _Gomera_ wounded, and my _Brache black beauty_ An actor in it? _Ab._ If thou strik'st, I'll shoot thee. _Nor._ How? fright me with your Pot-gun? what art thou? Good heaven, the Rogue, the traytor rogue _Mountferrat_, To swinge the nest of you, is a sport unlook'd for, Hels ---- consume you. _Mount._ As thou art a man, I am wounded, give me time to answer thee. _Gom._ Durst thou urge this? this hand can hold a sword yet.