Fr. R. (within). Hold, hold, I do confesse the murder.
Baker. Suer hee hath slayne him, for murder is confest.
D'Av. Tis better still.
Enter Ashburne, Godfrey, &c.
Godf. Was never knowne the lyke!
Baker. Is Ritchard slayne? I sawe Fryar Jhon, arm'd dreadfully with weapons Not to be worne in peace, pursue his lyfe; All which I'l tell the abbott. [Exit Baker.
Ashb. Most strange it is that the pursude is fownd
To bee the murderer, the pursuer slayne.
Howe was it, Godfrey? thou wast upp beefore mee
And canst discoorse it best.
Godfr. Thus, Syr: at noyse of murder, with the tramplinge
Of horse and ratlinge armor in the streetes,
The villadgers weare wakend from there sleepes;
Som gap't out of there windowes, others venter'd
Out of theere doores; amongst which I was one
That was the foremost, and saw Ritchard stopt
At a turninge lane, then overtooke by Jhon;
Who not him self alone, but even his horse
Backing the tother's beast, seemd with his feete
To pawe him from his saddle; att this assault
Friar Richard cryes, hold, hold and haunt mee not
For I confesse the murder! folke came in
Fownd th'one i'th sadle dead, the t'other sprallinge
Upon the earthe alyve, still cryinge out
That hee had doun the murder.
D'Av. Exellent still; withdrawe, for wee are saffe.
Enter the Abbott, the baker, Fryar Richard, prisoner and guarded, &c.[149]—