_Orl._ How, madam, the Twelve Peers of France! Why, let them be twelve devils of hell, What I have said, I'll pawn my sword, To seal it on the shield of him that dares, Malgrado[169] of his honour, combat me. _Oliver._ Marry, sir, that dare I. _Orl._ Y'ar'[170] a welcome man, sir. _Turpin._ Chastise the groom, Oliver, and learn him know We are not like the boys of Africa. _Orl._ Hear you, sir? You that so peremptorily bade him fight, Prepare your weapons, for your turn is next: 'Tis not one champion can discourage me. Come, are ye ready? [_He fights first with one, and then with the other, and overcomes them both._ So stand aside:--and, madam, if my fortune last it out, I'll guard your person with Twelve Peers of France. _Ogier._ [_aside_]. O Ogier, how canst thou stand, and see a slave Disgrace the house of France?--Sirrah, prepare you; For angry Nemesis sits on my sword to be reveng'd. [_They fight a good while, and then breathe._ _Ogier._ Howe'er disguis'd in base or Indian shape, Ogier can well discern thee by thy blows; For either thou art Orlando or the devil. _Orl._ [_taking off his scarf_]. Then, to assure you that I am no devil, Here's your friend and companion, Orlando. _Ogier._ And none can be more glad than Ogier is, That he hath found his cousin in his sense. _Oliver._ Whenas I felt his blows upon my shield, My teeth did chatter, and my thoughts conceiv'd, Who might this be, if not the Palatine. _Turpin._ So had I said, but that report did tell My lord was troubled with a lunacy. _Orl._ So was I, lordings; but give me leave awhile, Humbly as Mars did to his paramour, So to submit to fair Angelica.-- Pardon thy lord, fair saint Angelica, Whose love, stealing by steps into extremes, Grew by suspect to causeless lunacy. _Ang._ O no, my lord, but pardon my amiss; For had not Orlando lov'd Angelica, Ne'er had my lord fall'n into these extremes, Which we will parley private to ourselves. Ne'er was the Queen of Cyprus half so glad As is Angelica to see her lord, Her dear Orlando, settled in his sense. _Orl._ Thanks, my sweet love.-- But why stand the Prince of Africa, And Mandricard the King of Mexico, So deep in dumps, when all rejoice beside? First know, my lord, I slaughter'd Sacripant; I am the man that did the slave to death; Who frankly there did make confession, That he engrav'd the roundelays on the trees, And hung the schedules of poor Medor's love, Intending by suspect to breed debate Deeply 'twixt me and fair Angelica: His hope had hap, but we had all the harm; And now revenge, leaping from out the seat Of him that may command stern Nemesis, Hath pour'd those treasons justly on his head. What saith my gracious lord to this?