Cort. I'll write it in your breast.
[Draws.
Orb. What means my rival?
Cort. Either fight or die,
I'll not strain honour to a point too high;
I saved your life, and keep it if you can,
Cydaria shall be for the bravest man;
On equal terms you shall your fortune try,
Take this, and lay your flint-edged weapon by;
[Gives him a sword.
I'll arm you for my glory, and pursue
No palm, but what's to manly virtue due.
Fame, with my conquest, shall my courage tell.
This you shall gain, by placing love so well.
Orb. Fighting with you, ungrateful I appear.
Cort. Under that shadow, thou would'st hide thy fear: Thou would'st possess thy love at thy return, And in her arms my easy virtue scorn.
Orb. Since we must fight, no longer let's delay; The moon shines clear, and makes a paler day.
[They fight, ORBELLAN_ is wounded in the hand, his sword falls out of it_.
Cort. To courage, even of foes, there's pity due; It was not I, but fortune, vanquished you: [Throws his sword again. Thank me with that, and so dispute the prize, As if you fought before Cydaria's eyes.
Orb. I would not poorly such a gift requite; You gave me not this sword to yield, but fight: [He strives to hold it, but cannot. But see, where yours has forced its bloody way; My wounded hand my heart does ill obey.