[_Draws his sword and makes a feint at the Host._]

Sa! sa!

_Host._ Have a care--[_William makes feints._]

_Will._ I shall die! Gadzookers! thus, was it
thus!--and thy wife--a cuckoldy villain--merely a figure
of speech though, Master Gurton! Eh? Thou didst
not suspect?

_Host._ Wilt thou be quiet; I see no jest.

_Will._ Nay, I'll be bound not. Sa! Sa!

_Host._ Laugh an thou likest; but put up thy toasting-iron.

_Will._ Well, thou hast reason for thanksgiving.
But I think thy wife was right, if the poor
gentleman's thrust was drunken, 'twas a compliment to
thy wine. A scurvy rogue to ask for his money
when he was poor, and thy wine did affect him.

_Host._ But to speak seriously, good Will, what
bringeth thee here? Who is thy master! Can I
assist thee in anything?

_Will._ Well, I pity thee, and will say no more. My
master is young Arthur Walton. He hath returned.
He gave up the fortune to his brother Basil.