Antonio. Hah!—What! Struggling?
Countess. Oh, Uncle, I have been so ill-used by this Gentleman, that I must beg you will resent his behaviour.
Marquis. How!
Antonio. Certainly, my dear, if you have been used ill.
Countess. Most scandalously—Frighten her a little. (Aside to Antonio.)
Marquis. Upon my honour, Sir—
Antonio. Zounds, Sir, my niece is one of the most reserved, prudent young women—and whosoever offers an insult to her, it is my place, and consistent but with my honour, to resent it.—How white she looks. (Aside.)
Marquis. Sir, I shall not draw my sword before the Countess, and therefore I beg you will put up your's.
Antonio. And so I will, my poor Lady—I see it has frightened you—Here, Niece, have you any hartshorn or drops at hand—the poor thing is terrified out of her life. Come, come, my poor little creature—Poor thing—Poor rogue. (He goes up to sooth him, and the Marquis gives him a blow.)
Marquis. Don Antonio, this insolence shall receive the correction it deserves. (Draws.)