Fran. My Daughter’s a Lady, Sir.
Bal. And you, Mistress, you have married Antonio, and left the Governor.
Cla. I thought him the fitter Match, Sir, and hope your Pardon.
Jul. We cannot scape.
Fran. But how came you hither, Gentlemen, how durst you venture?
Seb. Whither, Sir, to my own Son’s house; is there such danger in coming a mile or two out of Cadiz?
Fran. Is the Devil in you, or me, or both? Am not I in the Possession of Turks and Infidels?
Bal. No, Sir; safe in Antonio Villa, within a League of Cadiz.
Fran. Why, what a Pox, is not this the Great Turk himself?
Bal. This, Sir,—cry mercy, my Lord,—’tis Don Carlos, Sir, the Governor.