Ard. Is he our jailer then? This Banissat?
Our prison his good favor? Nay, the world
Has many roads, and courage even yet
May blaze a new one.
Bion. Rooted life is best.
I am not one to make my bed on winds,
Or stroll the earth for fortune's grudgèd scraps
Snatched from a rapier's point.
Ard. Know this. My hand
Shall never lie in Banissat's. Give up
A hope so barren. There's better pasturage
For wits so bold as yours. Now Oswald holds
The breadth of Suli plain, the heights of Tor,
Winged by the sea from Ilon to Ramoor—
A principality whose circuit leaves
Avesta as a fly pinned to a wall.
Vig. What's Oswald's fief to us? We are no sons of his.
Ard. Lord Bertrand holds the princedom here
While Oswald goes to wars in Palestine.
Bion. He told you this?
Ard. Did you not read as much
In Oswald's letter? There 'twas plainly said.
Bion. Still is our surest hope with Banissat.
Ard. When Bertram! is your friend? O, more than friend!
A brother!
Bion. Ah ... do you say "brother"?