Enter Norandine.
Roc. Who's this?
Mount. Betray'd again?
Nor. By the report it made, and by the wind
The Pistol was discharg'd here.
Gom. Norandine.
As ever thou lov'st valor, or wear'st Arms
To punish baseness, shew it.
Nor. O the devil,
Gomera wounded, and my Brache black beauty
An actor in it?
Ab. If thou strik'st, I'll shoot thee.
Nor. How? fright me with your Pot-gun? what art thou?
Good heaven, the Rogue, the traytor rogue Mountferrat,
To swinge the nest of you, is a sport unlook'd for,
Hels —— consume you.
Mount. As thou art a man,
I am wounded, give me time to answer thee.