Ingen. Your lordship's merry.
[Pass.
I had like to have spoil'd your cutwork band.
Enter Maid, like a footboy, running; Brother after her; Maid kneels betwixt them.
Maid. O master, hold your hand! my lord, hold yours,
Or let your swords meet in this wretched breast!
Yet you are both well; what blood you have lost,
Give it as for the injury you did,
And now be friends.
Proudly. 'Sheart! 'tis a loving rogue.
Ingen. Kind boy, stand up: 'tis for thy wound he bleeds;
My wrong is yet unsatisfied.
Proudly. Hence! away!
It is a sister's loss that whets my sword.
Maid. O, stay, my lord! behold your sister here.
[Discovers herself.
Bleeding by your hand: servant, see your mistress
Turn'd to thy servant, running by thy horse;
Whose meaning 'twas[131] to have prevented this,
But all in vain.
Bro. O noble lady!