Lev. O feel my pulse. It beats, I warrant you. Be patient a little, sweet husband: tarry but till my breath come to me again and I'll satisfy you.
Bel. What ails Sebastian? He looks so distractedly.
Lev. The poor gentleman's almost out on's wits, I think. You remember the displeasure his father took against him about the liberty of speech he used even now, when your daughter went to be married?
Bel. Yes. What of that?
Lev. 'T has crazed him sure. He met a poor man i' the street even now. Upon what quarrel I know not, but he pursued him so violently that if my house had not been his rescue he had surely killed him.
Bel. What a strange desperate young man is that!
Lev. Nay, husband, he grew so in rage, when he saw the man was conveyed from him, that he was ready even to have drawn his naked weapon upon me. And had not your knocking at the door prevented him, surely he'd done something to me.
Bel. Where's the man?
Lev. Alas, here! I warrant you the poor fearful soul is scarce come to himself again yet.—If the fool have any wit he will apprehend me. [Aside.]—Do you hear, sir? You may be bold to come forth: the fury that haunted you is gone. [Fresco peeps fearfully forth from behind the arras.
Fres. Are you sure he is gone?