_John._ Surrender! Oh then you've no shot left indeed--let's see. [_Feels his pocket._] I hav'nt the loading of a gun about me now, and this same monsieur poverty is a bitter bad enemy. _Sir Geo._ They are the deserters that I've been after. [_Aside._ _John._ Meet me in an hour's time in the little wood yonder; I'll raise a wind to blow you into safe latitude--keep out to sea, my master's the rock you'll certainly split upon. _2d Ruff._ This is the first time we ever saw you; but we'll steer by your chart, for I never knew one seaman to betray another. [_Exeunt_ RUFFIANS. _Sir Geo._ Then they have been pressed--I can't blame them so much for running away. _John._ Yes, Sir George would certainly hang them. _Sir Geo._ I wouldn't, they shall eat beef, and drink the king's health, run and tell them so--stop, I'll tell them myself. _John._ Why, now you are yourself, and a kind, good gentleman, as you used to be. _Sir Geo._ Since these idle rogues are inclined to return to their duty, they shan't want sea store--take them this money--but hold--I'll meet them myself, and advise them as I would my children. [_Exeunt severally._ SCENE II. _A Wood._ _Enter_ ROVER, _in his first clothes, greatly agitated, with pistols_. _Rover._ Which way did Mr. Abrawang take? Dick Buskin, I think, has no suspicion of my intentions:--such a choleric spark will fight, I dare say. If I fall, or even survive this affair, I leave the field of love, and the fair prize, to the young gentleman I've personated, for I'm determined to see Lady Amaranth no more--Oh, here comes Abrawang. _Enter_ SIR GEORGE. _Sir Geo._ Now to relieve these foolish seagulls--they must be hovering about this coast--Ha! puppy unknown!-- _Rover._ You're the very man I was seeking.--You are not ignorant, Mr. Abrawang-- _Sir Geo._ Mr. what? _Rover._ You will not resign your title, ha, ha, ha! Oh, very well, I'll indulge you,--_Sir George Thunder_, you honoured me with a blow. _Sir Geo._ Did it hurt you? _Rover._ 'Sdeath! but let me proceed like a gentleman; as it's my pride to reject even favours, no man shall offer me an injury. _Sir Geo._ Eh! _Rover._ In rank we're equal. _Sir Geo._ Are we faith? [_Smiling._] The English of all this is, we're to fight. _Rover._ Sir, you have marked on me an indelible stain, only to be washed out by blood. _Sir Geo._ Why, I've only one objection to fighting you. _Rover._ What's that, sir? _Sir Geo._ That you're too brave a lad to be killed. _Rover._ Brave! No, sir; at present I wear the stigma of a coward. _Sir Geo._ Zounds! I like a bit of fighting--hav'n't had a morsel a long time--don't know when I've smelt gunpowder--but to bring down a woodcock. _Rover._ Take your ground. _Sir Geo._ But what are we to do for weapons? _Rover._ Here are weapons. _Sir Geo._ Well, this is bold work, for a privateer to give battle to a king's ship. _Rover._ Try your charge, sir, and take your ground.