Ler. Here's my Lord Ascanio.
Flo. Why doth he turn his face away, as if
He durst not look on danger? Do his fears
Now triumph o'er his courage?
Ler. Put it to the trial. [They fight.
Flo. He's more than mortal, sure. He strikes like lightning,
Himself not passive. But I'll try again,
And disenchant the sorcerer. Ay, there
I reach'd him home: you bleed; open your doublet;
The wound, perhaps, is dangerous.
Asc. But a scratch.
Flo. Sure I have heard that voice, and seen that face!
Velasco, 'tis the king.
Asc. My lord, what mean you?
Flo. Some planet strike me dead, and fix this arm
A monument to tell posterity
The treason of my error! Mighty sir,
Show mercy to your creature, that my death
(Which hastily steals on me) may not be
Too foul for after-story.
Asc. Rise, Florentio,
This act cannot endure the name of treason.
Flo. Some surgeons, quick, to search the wound! O sir,
How do you feel yourself? Speak life, or I
Shall sink down to my centre.