BUTLER (advances).
I should know that voice.
GORDON.
Butler!
BUTLER.
'Tis Gordon. What do you want here?
Was it so late, then, when the duke dismissed you?
GORDON.
Your hand bound up and in a scarf?
BUTLER.
'Tis wounded.
That Illo fought as he were frantic, till
At last we threw him on the ground.
GORDON (shuddering).
Both dead?
BUTLER.
Is he in bed?
GORDON.
Ah, Butler!
BUTLER.
Is he? speak.
GORDON.
He shall not perish! Not through you! The heaven
Refuses your arm. See—'tis wounded!