Ostyn.Come, come; give me your hands. You are atremble.
Why do you stare about you so?—till now
As tall and tearless as some Roman dame
Who flincht not ever? He fell in fight I say—
Full fair (would I had run him thro’ and thro’
A dozen times). Fear not. The town is close,
And that dead tiger’s dogs will never dare
To hunt you in it. This little storm will pass.
Look how the dull face of the forest mere
Whitens beneath th’ approaching rain. Come now;