Arth. Offhands! ye know me not. [To 4th POACHER.] Thou murderous dog! Wilt cut my throat as thou didst hers?—
[4th POACHER staggers back.]
4th Poach. Will no one finish him? 'Tis a spy; he will tell of ye all.
[ARTHUR struggles and they strike at him.]
[Enter CROMWELL, R.U.E.]
Crom. Who be these knaves? What, murder! Ha! then strike: Down with the sons of Belial!
[Strikes down 4th POACHER with his sword. The rest fly.]
The Lord is merciful to thee, young man! [To ARTHUR.]
Another moment, and thy soul had fled—
Wherefore, I hope, since it hath chanced so,
And yet not chanc'd, since 'tis appointed thus,
That no one falls or lives, unless the God
Of battles hath decreed. Wherefore I trust
Thou art of the good work.
[Enter WILLIAM, R.]
Will. My master bloody?— A dead man on the ground!—a knight of the road by his looks— [Sees CROMWELL.] What a grim stranger!