Cort. What nobler fate could any lover meet? I fall revenged, and at my mistress' feet.
[They fall on him, and bear him down, GUYOMAR takes his sword.
Alib. He's past recovery; my dear brother's slain, Fate's hand was in it, and my care is vain.
Alm. In weak complaints you vainly waste your breath: They are not tears that can revenge his death. Despatch the villain strait.
Cort. The villain's dead.
Alm. Give me a sword, and let me take his head.
Mont. Though, madam, for your brother's loss I grieve, Yet let me beg—
Alm. His murderer may live?
Cyd. 'Twas his misfortune, and the chance of war.
Cort. It was my purpose, and I killed him fair: How could you so unjust and cruel prove, To call that chance, which was the act of love?