Hold, John! [_To_ Lambert. That's your choice, To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine, I thank you now for choosing this so well, It saves me much perplexity and doubt; Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count This sparing traitors is an ill deed. Well, Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends. SIR LAMBERT, _grovelling_. O God! this is a fiend and not a man; Will some one save me from him? help, help, help! I will not die. SIR PETER. Why, what is this I see? A man who is a knight, and bandied words So well just now with me, is lying down, Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased. I should have guess'd this from a man like you. Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin, Yea, all a man can have for simple life, And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this, Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell Will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk, 'Would rather die,' all that. Now sir, get up! And choose again: shall it be head sans ears, Or trunk sans head? John Curzon, pull him up! What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John. Lambert, I hope that never on this earth We meet again; that you'll turn out a monk, And mend the life I give you, so farewell, I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch. _In the French camp before the Castle._ Sir Peter _prisoner_, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert. SIR PETER. So now is come the ending of my life; If I could clear this sickening lump away That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word, Guesclin might listen. GUESCLIN. Tell me, fair sir knight, If you have been clean liver before God, And then you need not fear much; as for me, I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath, And cousin Lambert's ears here clench the thing. SIR PETER. I knew you could not hate me, therefore I Am bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your cause To hang knights of good name, harms here in France I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter Men will remember you another way Than I should care to be remember'd, ah! Although hot lead runs through me for my blood, All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords, Give back my falcon! See how young I am, Do you care altogether more for France, Say rather one French faction, than for all The state of Christendom? a gallant knight, As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worth Than many castles; will you bring this death, For a mere act of justice, on my head?