Rut. You are too insolent,
And do insult too much on the advantage
Of that which your unequal weapon gave you,
More than your valour.

Dua. This to me, you Peasant? 
Thou art not worthy of my foot poor fellow,
’Tis scorn, not pity, makes me give thee life: 
Kneel down and thank me for’t:  how, do you stare?

Rut. I have a sword Sir, you shall find, a good one; This is no stabbing guard.

Dua. Wert thou thrice arm’d, Thus yet I durst attempt thee.

Rut. Then have at you, [Fight. I scorn to take blows.

Dua. O I am slain. [Falls.

Page. Help! murther, murther!

Alon. Shift for your self you are dead else, You have kill’d the Governou[r]s Nephew.

Page. Raise the streets there.

Alon. If once you are beset you cannot scape, Will you betray your self?

Rut.  Undone for ever. [Exit Rut. and Alonzo.

Enter Officers.

1 Off.  Who makes this out-cry?

Page.  O my Lord is murdered;
This way he took, make after him,
Help help there. [Exit Page.

2 Offi.  ’Tis Don Duarte.

1 Offi.  Pride has got a fall,
He was still in quarrels, scorn’d us Peace-makers,
And all our Bill-authority, now h’as paid for’t. 
You ha’ met with your match Sir now, bring off his body
And bear it to the Governour.  Some pursue
The murderer; yet if he scape, it skills not;
Were I a Prince, I would reward him for’t,
He has rid the City of a turbulent beast,
There’s few will pity him:  but for his Mother
I truly grieve indeed, she’s a good Lady. [Exeunt.

Enter Guiomar and Servants.

Gui.  He’s not i’th’ house?

Ser.  No Madam.

Gui.  Haste and seek him,
Go all and every where, Pie not to bed
Till you return him, take away the lights too,
The Moon lends me too much, to find my fears
And those devotions I am to pay
Are written in my heart, not in this book, [Kneel. 
And I shall read them there without a Taper. [Ex.  Ser.

Enter Rutilio.

Rut.  I am pursued; all the Ports are stopt too;
Not any hope to escape, behind, before me,
On either side I am beset, cursed fortune
My enemie on the Sea, and on the Land too,
Redeem’d from one affliction to another: 
Would I had made the greedy waves my tomb
And dyed obscure, and innocent, not as Nero
Smear’d o’re with blood.  Whither have my fears brought me? 
I am got into a house, the doors all open,
This, by the largeness of the room, the hangings,
And other rich adornments, glistring through
The sable masque of night, sayes it belongs
To one of means and rank:  no servant stirring? 
Murmur nor whisper?