Enter_ Duarte and his Page.
Man. Here he comes. We are unseen, observe him.
Dua. Boy.
Page. My Lord.
Dua. What saith the Spanish Captain that I struck, To my bold challenge?
Page. He refus'd to read it.
Dua. Why didst not leave it there?
Page. I did my Lord,
But to no purpose, for he seems more willing
To sit down with the wrongs, than to repair
His honour by the sword; he knows too well,
That from your Lordship nothing can be got
But more blows, and disgraces.
Dua. He's a wretch,
A miserable wretch, and all my fury
Is lost upon him; holds the Mask, appointed
I'th' honour of Hippolyta?
Page. 'Tis broke off.