'Thou art a mean and treacherous villain!' cried Scudamore.
'Thou art to blame in speaking that thou dost not believe, sir
Rowland. But wilt thou have thy horse or no?'
'No; I will remain where I am until I hear the worst.'
'Or come home with me, where thou wilt hear it yet sooner. Thou shalt taste a roundhead's hospitality.'
'I scorn thee and thy false friendship,' cried Rowland, and turning again into the closet, he bolted the door.
That same morning a great iron ball struck the marble horse on his proud head, and flung it in fragments over the court. From his neck the water bubbled up bright and clear, like the life-blood of the wounded whiteness.
'Poor Molly!' said the marquis, when he looked from his study-window—then smiled at his pity.
Lord Charles entered: a messenger had come from general Fairfax, demanding a surrender in the name of the parliament.
'If they had but gone on a little longer, Charles, they might have saved us the trouble,' said his lordship, 'for there would have been nothing left to surrender.—But I will consider the proposal,' he added. 'Pray tell sir Thomas that whatever I do, I look first to have it approved of the king.'
But there was no longer the shadow of a question as to submission. All that was left was but the arrangement of conditions. The marquis was aware that captain Hooper's trenches were rapidly approaching the rampart; that six great mortars for throwing shells had been got into position; and that resistance would be the merest folly.