1 Rob. Who has his horse?
2 Rob. No one; the Scotch laird travelled on foot. From a pair of justices of the peace, a foundered mare, a black gelding, two doublets, and a hundred marks in gold—they were tied back to back;—
1 Rob. Good! It is but right, that they who bind over so many, should at last, be bound over themselves; and a wise thief is ever bound in justice to put a foolish justice in binding.
2 Rob. Back to back, and hoodwinked—They were left, lamenting their fate, in the forest.
1 Rob. Lament! O villains!—To be in the commission of the peace, and not know that Justice should always be blind. Marry, a good day! Are there any more?
2 Rob. Only a fat friar, who was half plundered, and saved himself by flight.
1 Rob. The better fortune his. Few fat friars, I fancy, have the luck to be saved. What did he yield?
2 Rob. The rope from his middle, a bottle of sack from his bosom, and a link of hog's puddings, pulled out of his left sleeve.
1 Rob. Gad a mercy, friar! For the sack, and the sausages, they shall be shared, merrily, among us; and for the rope,—hum!—come, we won't think of that, now. [A Horn wound lowly.] Hark! there's our Captain's horn!—'faith, for one who, I suspect is married, he chuses an odd signal of approach.
2 Rob. Nay, though he may be married, he's no milksop; and, I warrant him, when he's on duty, and robbing among us, he quite forgets his wife, as an honest man should do. He has joined us but a short time, yet, egad, he heads us nobly! He'll pluck you an hundred crowns from a rich fellow's pocket, with one hand, and throw his share of them into a hungry beggar's hat, with the other. But, here he comes.