Pol.  It is most true—­
                  All this is very true.  When saw you, sir,
                  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
                  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
                  A heaven so calm as this—­so utterly free
                  From the evil taint of clouds?—­and he did say?

Bal.  No more, my lord, than I have told you: 
                  The Count Castiglione will not fight. 
                  Having no cause for quarrel.

Pol.  Now this is true—­
                  All very true.  Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
                  And I have not forgotten it—­thou’lt do me
                  A piece of service:  wilt thou go back and say
                  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
                  Hold him a villain?—­thus much, I pr’ythee, say
                  Unto the Count—­it is exceeding just
                  He should have cause for quarrel.

Bal.  My lord!—­my friend!—­

Pol. (aside).  ’Tis he—­he comes himself!
       (aloud.) Thou reasonest well. 
                  I know what thou wouldst say—­not send the message—­
                  Well!—­I will think of it—­I will not send it. 
                  Now pr’ythee, leave me—­hither doth come a person
                  With whom affairs of a most private nature
                  I would adjust.

Bal.  I go—­to-morrow we meet,
                  Do we not?—­at the Vatican.

Pol.  At the Vatican.

(Exit Bal.)

Enter Castiglione.

Cas.  The Earl of Leicester here!

Pol.  I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
                  Dost thou not, that I am here?

Cas.  My lord, some strange,
                  Some singular mistake—­misunderstanding—­
                  Hath without doubt arisen:  thou hast been urged
                  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
                  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
                  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey.  I am aware
                  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
                  Having given thee no offence.  Ha!—­am I right? 
                  ’Twas a mistake?—­undoubtedly—­we all
                  Do err at times.

Pol.  Draw, villain, and prate no more!

Cas.  Ha!—­draw?—­and villain? have at thee then at once,
                  Proud Earl!
               (Draws.)

Pol.
(drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
                  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
                  In the name of Lalage!