Benhale

Not, ruffian, till you feel The venom of my sting unto your marrow!

[BENHALE, with skill and dexterity, avoids the blows of his antagonist, who nearly overturns himself by a false stroke; the Knight, improving the opportunity, cuts off his opponent’s left arm. What think ye, braggart! of our English pups, Now that ye feel their claws? [Shouts from the English.

TURNBULL (recovering.)

Thou wicked one, Nursed by some imp of hell; hence musket-proof, With Satan’s phiz embroider’d on your vest! Confess yourself a fiend, nor urge a strife Unequal. [They both rest on their swords.