“Is that the angel which flew through the sky?” inquired the sentinel, who had discharged it, and who, with curses regretted that it had not gone a little nearer in order that the herald might have known more accurately.
“Darest thou?” exclaimed the governor, as he turned to the sentinel. “Another time, thou receivest thy punishment.”
The herald continued,—
“You are cut off from all provisions, you shall soon be compelled to eat your wives, your little ones, and yourselves. Then surrender in time.”
“Not so,” replied the governor, with a laugh, “we have better dainties than that. We have as good ale, as ever Oliver himself brewed at Huntingdon. Nay, I should like to have a chat with him, over some of it. Sentinel, throw Obadiah a loaf.”
The herald, who did not seem by any means over-fed, caught the descending bread, and stowed it about his person.
“Now, fool, return and tell Oliver that we despise his vengeance, and laugh at his mercy.”
“Then,” exclaimed the angry and indignant messenger, “a voice against Lancaster, a voice against the Castle, a voice against—”
“Yourself. A voice against yourself,” and a well aimed ball, from the governor’s pistol, brought him to the ground, from off his steed.
The report could not have been heard from the hill, where Cromwell’s troops were posted, but the herald’s fall must have been noticed, as instantly active preparations for the attack seemed to be making, and soon several pieces of cannon opened their fire upon the castle in close volley. From the upper batteries it was returned, and from the loop holes over the strong arched gateway, muskets were fired upon those of the Roundhead soldiers, who had broken down the gates of the town, and were advancing furiously.