[Flourishing his sword sheathed.
I'll fall to execution—ha! I am feeble:
Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,
And takes away the use of 't! And my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn. Are these the hangmen?
But I'll be forced to hell like to myself;
Though you were legions of accursed spirits,
Thus would I fly among you.
[Rushes forward.
Wellborn: There's no help;
Disarm him first, then bind him.
Margaret: Oh, my dear father!
[They force Overreach off.
Allworth: You must be patient, mistress.
Lovell: Pray take comfort.
I will endeavour you shall be his guardians
In his distraction: and for your land, Master Wellborn,
Be it good or ill in law, I'll be an umpire
Between you and this the undoubted heir
Of Sir Giles Overreach; for me, here's the anchor
That I must fix on.
[Takes Lady Allworth's hand.
OOTNOTES: