Cres. Were those with swords?
Pand. Swords, or bucklers, faulchions, darts, and lances! any thing, he cares not! an' the devil come, it is all one to him: by Jupiter he looks so terribly, that I am half afraid to praise him.
Enter Paris.
Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris! look ye yonder, niece; is it not a brave young prince too? He draws the best bow in all Troy; he hits you to a span twelve-score level:—who said he came home hurt to-day? why, this will do Helen's heart good now! ha! that I could see Troilus now!
Enter Helenus.
Cres. Who's that black man, uncle?
Pand. That is Helenus.—I marvel where Troilus is all this while;—that is Helenus.—I think Troilus went not forth to-day;—that's Helenus.
Cres. Can Helenus fight, uncle?
Pand. Helenus! No, yes; he'll fight indifferently well.—I marvel in my heart what's become of Troilus:—Hark! do you not hear the people cry, Troilus?—Helenus is a priest, and keeps a whore; he'll fight for his whore, or he's no true priest, I warrant him.
Enter Troilus passing over.