Don. My daughter! mi mal! mi muerte!
Hip. My name's Hippolita, sir: I don't own your Spanish names. But, pray father, why do you frighten one so? you know I don't love to see a sword: what do you mean to do with that ugly thing out?
Don. I'll show you. Traidor! ladron de mi honra! thou diest. [Runs at Gerrard.
Ger. Not if I can help it, good Don. But by the names you give me, I find you mistake your man: I suppose some Spaniard has affronted you. [Draws.
Don. None but thee, ladron! and thou diest for't. [Fight.
Mrs. Caut. Oh! oh! oh!—help! help! help!
Hip. O—what, will you kill my poor dancing-master? [Kneels.
Don. A dancing-master! he's a fencing-master rather, I think. But is he your dancing-master? umph—
Ger. So much wit and innocency were never together before. [Aside.
Don. Is he a dancing-master? [Pausing.