“Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather” (a favourite play on words with our hero); “but yet no coward, Hal.”
“Well, we leave that to the proof.”
“Sirrah Jack!” said Poins, as he sneaked away to ‘walk lower’ with the Prince of Wales; “thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou need’st him there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.”
“Now cannot I strike him if I should be hanged!” exclaimed the magnanimous John.
Footsteps sounded, lanterns glimmered on the summit of the hill.
“Now my masters,” said Jack, grasping his broadsword. “Happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.”
They withdrew into “the narrow lane.” This was a short cut, down which the travellers would probably walk, leaving their horses to be led round by the high road. Such proved to be the case. The travellers, four in number, were plebeians of the vulgarest description; shopmen, farmers, carriers, and the like,—people with large hands and coarse minds, such as in all cases have been reserved by destiny as the legitimate prey of the superior classes: the only observable variation of their treatment being in the manner of levying taxation.
Four terrible figures rushed out of the darkness, and four terrible voices cried:—
“Stand!”
The unfortunate travellers would have been most happy to do so, only they were too frightened. They fell on their knees instead, and roared.