Pearson and a soldier or two rushed in—“Secure that fellow,” said the General, in the indifferent tone of one to whom imminent danger was too familiar to cause irritation—“Bind him—but not so hard, Pearson;”—for the men, to show their zeal, were drawing their belts, which they used for want of cords, brutally tight round Wildrake’s limbs. “He would have assassinated me, but I would reserve him for his fit doom.”
“Assassinated!—I scorn your words, Master Oliver,” said Wildrake; “I proffered you a fair duello.”
“Shall we shoot him in the street, for an example?” said Pearson to Cromwell; while Everard endeavoured to stop Wildrake from giving further offence.
“On your life harm him not; but let him be kept in safe ward, and well looked after,” said Cromwell; while the prisoner exclaimed to Everard, “I prithee let me alone—I am now neither thy follower, nor any man’s, and I am as willing to die as ever I was to take a cup of liquor.—And hark ye, speaking of that, Master Oliver, you were once a jolly fellow, prithee let one of thy lobsters here advance yonder tankard to my lips, and your Excellency shall hear a toast, a song, and a—secret.”
“Unloose his head, and hand the debauched beast the tankard,” said Oliver; “while yet he exists, it were shame to refuse him the element he lives in.”
“Blessings on your head for once,” said Wildrake, whose object in continuing this wild discourse was, if possible, to gain a little delay, when every moment was precious. “Thou hast brewed good ale, and that’s warrant for a blessing. For my toast and my song, here they go together—
Son of a witch,
Mayst thou die in a ditch,
With the hutchers who back thy quarrels;
And rot above ground,
While the world shall resound
A welcome to Royal King Charles.
And now for my secret, that you may not say I had your liquor for nothing—I fancy my song will scarce pass current for much—My secret is, Master Cromwell—that the bird is flown—and your red nose will be as white as your winding-sheet before you can smell out which way.”
“Pshaw, rascal,” answered Cromwell, contemptuously, “keep your scurrile jests for the gibbet foot.”
“I shall look on the gibbet more boldly,” replied Wildrake, “than I have seen you look on the Royal Martyr’s picture.”