Witty. Are you sure Sebastian died there?
Ruin. Faith Sir, there was some other rumour hop't amongst us, that he, wounded, escap'd, and toucht on his Native shore agen, where finding his Countrey at home more distrest by the invasion of the Spaniard, than his loss abroad, forsook it, still supporting a miserable and unfortunate life, which (where he ended) is yet uncertain.
Witty. By my faith Sir, he speaks the nearest fame of truth in this.
Ruin. Since Sir, I serv'd in France, the Low Countreys, Lastly, at that memorable skirmish at Newport, where the forward and bold Scot there spent his life so freely, that from every single heart that there fell, came home from his resolution, a double honor to his Countrey.
Witty. This should be no counterfeit, Sir.
Old K. I do not think he is, Sir.
Witty. But Sir, me thinks you do not shew the marks of a Soldier, could you so freely scape, that you brought home no scarrs to be your chronicle?
Ruin. Sir, I have wounds, and many, but in those parts where nature and humanity bids me shame to publish.
Witty. A good Soldier cannot want those badges.