“Ride fast, my master, ride,
Or e’er within the broadening dark
The narrow shadows hide,
Ere night I shall be near to thee—
Now ride, my master, ride—
Ere night, as parted spirits cleave
To mortals too beloved to leave,
I shall be by thy side!”—E. B. Browning.
“Yes, Colonel Rosenthal, I shall have to hang you in about an hour from this.”
Having pronounced this dreadful sentence in the coolest manner, Monck tossed off his tumbler of brandy, and then looked up to see what effect the words had had upon his intended victim.