Chapter 13

England. Camp of the Earl Demarch.

[Enter William, taken with soldiers.]

WILLIAM. Could any cross, could any plague be worse? Could heaven or hell, did both conspire in one To afflict my soul, invent a greater scourge Then presently I am tormented with? Ah, Mariana, cause of my lament, Joy of my heart, and comfort of my life! For tho I breath my sorrows in the air And tire my self, or silently I sigh, My sorrows afficts my soul with equal passion.

SOLDIER. Go to, sirha, put up, it is to small purpose.

WILLIAM. Hency, villains, hence! dare you lay your hands Upon your Soveraigne?

SOLDIER. Well, sir, we will deal for that. But here comes one will remedy all this.

[Enter Demarch.]

My Lord, watching this night in the camp, We took this man, and know not what he is: And in his company was a gallant dame, A woman fair in outward shew she seemed, But that her face was masked, we could not see The grace and favour of her countenance.

DEMARCH. Tell me, good fellow, of whence and what thou art.

SOLDIER. Why do you not answer my Lord? He takes scorn to answer.

DEMARCH. And takest thou scorn to answer my demand? Thy proud behaviour very well deserves This misdemeanour at the worst be construed. Why doest thou neither know, nor hast thou heard, That in the absence of the Saxon Duke Demarch is his especial Substitute To punish those that shall offend the laws?

WILLIAM. In knowing this, I know thou art a traitor; A rebel, and mutinous conspirator. Why, Demarch, knowest thou who I am?

DEMARCH. Pardon, my dread Lord, the error of my sense, And misdemeaner to your princely excellencie.

WILLIAM. Why, Demarch, What is the cause my subjects are in arms?

DEMARCH. Free are my thoughts, my dread and gratious Lord, From treason to your state and common weal; Only revengement of a private grudge By Lord Dirot lately profered me, That stands not with the honor of my name, Is cause I have assembled for my guard Some men in arms that may withstand his force, Whose settled malice aimeth at my life.

WILLIAM. Where is Lord Dirot?

DEMARCH. In arms, my gratious Lord, Not past two miles from hence, as credibly I am assertained.

WILLIAM. Well; come, let us go. I fear I shall find traitors of you both.

[Exit.]