Gay. Only mark him! how he struts about!
How laughs his straight sword at his noble back.
Wal. Does it? It cuffs thee for a liar then!
[Strikes Gaylove with his sword.]
Gay. A blow!
Wal. Another, lest you doubt the first!
Gay. His blood on his own head! I’m for you, sir!
[Draws.]
Clif. Hold, sir! This quarrel’s mine!
[Coming forward and drawing.]
Wal. No man shall fight for me, sir!