Ped. O! would the general shake off his dotage to the usurping queen,
And re-enthrone good venerable Sancho,
I'll undertake, should Bertran sound his trumpets,
And Torrismond but whistle through his fingers,
He draws his army off.
Alph. I told him so;
But had an answer louder than a storm.
Ped. Now, plague and pox on his smock-loyalty!
I hate to see a brave bold fellow sotted,
Made sour and senseless, turned to whey by love;
A drivelling hero, fit for a romance.—
O, here he comes! what will their greetings be?
Enter Torrismond, attended; Bertran and he meet and jostle.
Bert. Make way, my lords, and let the pageant pass.
Tor. I make my way, where'er I see my foe;
But you, my lord, are good at a retreat.
I have no Moors behind me.
Bert. Death and hell!
Dare to speak thus when you come out again.
Tor. Dare to provoke me thus, insulting man!
Ter. My lords, you are too loud so near the queen;
You, Torrismond, have much offended her.
'Tis her command you instantly appear,
To answer your demeanour to the prince. [Exit Teresa; Bertran, with his company, follow her.