"If you don't get on faster," said the soldier who had first spoken, "you won't be buried alive for some time to come, at least!"
"Pardon!" muttered the mountebank. "The hill—it is very steep."
"You look strong enough to climb a dozen hills, and if you're holding back for a chance to escape—"
"No, no!" protested the man. "I had no thought—do I not know that if I tried, your sword—"
"Quite right. I'd—"
"There, there!" said the other soldier, a big, good-natured appearing fellow. "He's harmless enough, and," as once more they moved on, "that tune of yours, Monsieur Mountebank," abruptly; "it runs in my head. Let me see—how does it go? The second verse, I mean—"
"Beat! beat!
Mid marsh-muck and mire,
For if any note
Escapes a frog's throat,
Beware my lord's ire!"
"Yes; that's the one. Not bad!" humming—
"For if any note
Escapes a frog's throat
Beware my lord's ire!"
"Are the verses your own?"