“Anything, my son, consistent with our office,” said Trois Eschelles.
“That is,” said Hayraddin, “anything but my life.”
“Even so,” said Trois Eschelles, “and something more, for you seem resolved to do credit to our mystery, and die like a man, without making wry mouths—why, though our orders are to be prompt, I care not if I indulge you ten minutes longer.”
“You are even too generous,” said Hayraddin.
“Truly we may be blamed for it,” said Petit Andre, “but what of that?—I could consent almost to give my life for such a jerry come tumble, such a smart, tight, firm lad, who proposes to come from aloft with a grace, as an honest fellow should.”
“So that if you want a confessor—” said Trois Eschelles.
“Or a lire of wine—” said his facetious companion.
“Or a psalm—” said Tragedy.
“Or a song—” said Comedy.
“Neither, my good, kind, and most expeditious friends,” said the Bohemian. “I only pray to speak a few minutes with yonder Archer of the Scottish Guard.”