And then he fled to the Meadow-mill,
Where he acquainted was right well,
Thence in disguise return’d again,
And bore him off, from ’mongst the slain.
His stately dwelling was near by;
But now he could not lift an eye,
His speech was laid, all hopes were gone
No signs of life, except a groan.
Of hours he liv’d but very few,
“A good Christi’n and soldi’r too,”