Gordon. Butler!
Butler. 'Tis Gordon. What do you want here?
Was it so late then, when the Duke dismissed you? [20]
Gordon. Your hand bound up and in a scarf?
Butler. 'Tis wounded.
That Illo fought as he was frantic, till
At last we threw him on the ground.
Gordon. Both dead?
Butler. Is he in bed?
Gordon. Ah, Butler!
Butler. Is he? speak.
Gordon. He shall not perish! Not through you! The Heaven [25]
Refuses your arm. See—'tis wounded!—
Butler. There is no need of my arm.