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Enter Maurice, leading Beatrice muffled in her mantle.

MAURICE.

Come, sweetest mistress mine, move we more quickly;

Our horses wait us some few paces off;
And by the baiting hour, when labouring hinds,
Under some tree, sit round the loosen'd scrip,
Holding on homely fare a merry feast,
We will, like them, in all security,
Enjoy a welcome rest.

ROMIERO. (rushing forth).

Which shall to doomsday last, thou damned villain!—(Draws fiercely upon him, while Beatrice runs away. They fight, but she presently returns and rushes between them, favoured by Guzman.)

ROMIERO.

Forbear, thou shameless woman.—Beatrice!

BEATRICE.

It is, my Lord; and O have pity on me!

It is myself who am the most to blame.
Pardon my dear, dear Maurice.—Yes, you will.
Your look of strange amazement, changed to joy,
Emboldens me.—Our hearts have long been join'd;
O do not sever us!