“Curse him! how can he ride after that?” he exclaimed. “Ha! he reels in the saddle! Fire again, men! fire again! Now he clings to the horse’s neck—he must fall—he is ours! he is ours! Evil shall hunt the wicked person to overthrow him!”
At that instant one of the Prince’s troopers, finding his way blocked by the fanatic, pushed roughly past.
“Out of the way, you prating Puritan!” he cried, “or I’ll dash your brains out!” And with that he dealt Waghorn a blow on the head which left him groaning on the ground.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
One loving howre
For many years of sorrow can dispence;
A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre.
. . . true is, that true love hath no powre,