fairer way.

_Orb_. 'Tis true, my passion small defence can make;
Yet you must spare me for your honour's sake,
That was engaged to set me safe and free.

_Cort_. 'Twas to a stranger, not an enemy:
Nor is it prudence to prolong thy breath,
When all my hopes depend upon thy death;
Yet none shall tax me with base perjury:
Something I'll do, both for myself and thee;
With vowed revenge my soldiers search each tent,
If thou art seen, none can thy death prevent;
Follow my steps with silence and with haste.

SCENE III.

_They go out, the Scene changes to the Indian Country, they
return_.

_Cort_. Now you are safe, you have my outguards past.

_Orb_. Then here I take my leave.

_Cort_. Orbellan, no;
When you return, you to Cydaria go:
I'll send a message.

_Orb_. Let it be exprest;
I am in haste.

_Cort_. I'll write it in your breast.

[_Draws_.

_Orb_. What means my rival?

_Cort_. Either fight or die,
I'll not strain honour to a point too high;
I saved your life, and keep it if you can,
Cydaria shall be for the bravest man;
On equal terms you shall your fortune try,
Take this, and lay your flint-edged weapon by;
[_Gives him a sword_.
I'll arm you for my glory, and pursue
No palm, but what's to manly virtue due.
Fame, with my conquest, shall my courage tell.
This you shall gain, by placing love so well.

_Orb_. Fighting with you, ungrateful I appear.

_Cort_. Under that shadow, thou would'st hide thy fear:
Thou would'st possess thy love at thy return,
And in her arms my easy virtue scorn.

_Orb_. Since we must fight, no longer let's delay;
The moon shines clear, and makes a paler day.

[_They fight_, ORBELLAN_ is wounded in the hand,
his sword falls out of it_.

_Cort_. To courage, even of foes, there's pity due;
It was not I, but fortune, vanquished you:
[_Throws his sword again_.
Thank me with that, and so dispute the prize,
As if you fought before Cydaria's eyes.

_Orb_. I would not poorly such a gift requite;
You gave me not this sword to yield, but fight:
[_He strives to hold it, but cannot_.
But see, where yours has forced its bloody way;
My wounded hand my heart does ill obey.

_Cort_. Unlucky honour, that controul'st my will?
Why have I vanquished, since I must not kill?
Fate sees thy life lodged in a brittle glass,
And looks it through, but to it cannot pass.

_Orb_. All I can do is frankly to confess,--
I wish I could, but cannot, love her less:
To swear I woul