Ros. 
     Silence, Fife,
     And let me speak for both.—­Two foreign men,
     To whom your country and its proclamations
     Are equally unknown; and had we known,
     Ourselves not masters of our lawless beasts
     That, terrified by the storm among your rocks,
     Flung us upon them to our cost.

     Fife. 
     My mule—­

     CLO. 
     Foreigners?  Of what country?

     Ros. 
     Muscovy.

     CLO. 
     And whither bound?

     Ros. 
     Hither—­if this be Poland;
     But with no ill design on her, and therefore
     Taking it ill that we should thus be stopt
     Upon her threshold so uncivilly.

     CLO. 
     Whither in Poland?

     Ros. 
     To the capital.

     CLO. 
     And on what errand?

     Ros. 
     Set me on the road,
     And you shall be the nearer to my answer.

     CLO. (aside). 
     So resolute and ready to reply,
     And yet so young—­and—­
     (Aloud.)
     Well,—­
     Your business was not surely with the man
     We found you with?

     Ros. 
     He was the first we saw,—­
     And strangers and benighted, as we were,
     As you too would have done in a like case,
     Accosted him at once.

     CLO. 
     Ay, but this sword?

     Ros. 
     I flung it toward him.

     CLO. 
     Well, and why?

     Ros. 
     And why?  But to revenge himself on those who thus
     Injuriously misuse him.

     CLO. 
     So—­so—­so! 
     ’Tis well such resolution wants a beard
     And, I suppose, is never to attain one. 
     Well, I must take you both, you and your sword,
     Prisoners.

     Fife. (offering a cudgel). 
     Pray take mine, and welcome, sir;
     I’m sure I gave it to that mule of mine
     To mighty little purpose.

     Ros. 
     Mine you have;
     And may it win us some more kindliness
     Than we have met with yet.

     CLO (examining the sword). 
     More mystery! 
     How came you by this weapon?

     Ros. 
     From my father.

     CLO. 
     And do you know whence he?

     Ros. 
     Oh, very well: 
     From one of this same Polish realm of yours,
     Who promised a return, should come the chance,
     Of courtesies that he received himself
     In Muscovy, and left this pledge of it—­
     Not likely yet, it seems, to be redeem’d.

     CLO (aside). 
     Oh, wondrous chance—­or wondrous Providence! 
     The sword that I myself in Muscovy,
     When these white hairs were black, for keepsake left
     Of obligation for a like return
     To him who saved me wounded as I lay