I have a sword, and arm, that never fail'd me.
André.
Bland, such an act would justly thee involve,
And leave that helpless one thou sworest to guard,
Expos'd to every ill. Oh! think not of it.
Bland.
If thou wilt not my aid—take it thyself.
[Draws and offers his sword.
André.
No, men will say that cowardice did urge me.
In my mind's weakness, I did wish to shun
That mode of death which error represented
Infamous: Now let me rise superior;
And with a fortitude too true to start
From mere appearances, shew your country,
That she, in me, destroys a man who might
Have liv'd to virtue.
Bland [sheathing his sword].
I will not think more of it;
I was again the sport of erring passion.