But let us now, like soldiers on the watch,
Put the soul’s armour on, alike prepared
For all a soldier’s warfare brings.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
The reader will recollect, that when Rochecliffe and Joceline were made prisoners, the party which escorted them had two other captives in their train, Colonel Everard, namely, and the Rev. Nehemiah Holdenough. When Cromwell had obtained entrance into Woodstock, and commenced his search after the fugitive Prince, the prisoners were placed in what had been an old guardroom, and which was by its strength well calculated to serve for a prison, and a guard was placed over them by Pearson. No light was allowed, save that of a glimmering fire of charcoal. The prisoners remained separated from each other, Colonel Everard conversing with Nehemiah Holdenough, at a distance from Dr. Rochecliffe, Sir Henry Lee, and Joceline. The party was soon after augmented by Wildrake, who was brought down to the Lodge, and thrust in with so little ceremony, that, his arms being bound, he had very nearly fallen on his nose in the middle of the prison.
“I thank you, my good friend,” he said, looking back to the door, which they who had pushed him in were securing—“Point de cérémonie—no apology for tumbling, so we light in good company.—Save ye, save ye, gentlemen all—What, á la mort, and nothing stirring to keep the spirits up, and make a night on’t?—the last we shall have, I take it; for a make[[1]] to a million, but we trine to the nubbing cheat[[2]] to-morrow.—Patron—noble patron, how goes it? This was but a scurvy trick of Noll so far as you were concerned: as for me, why I might have deserved something of the kind at his hand.”
[1] A half-penny.
[2] Hang on the gallows.
“Prithee, Wildrake, sit down,” said Everard; “thou art drunk—disturb us not.”
“Drunk? I drunk?” cried Wildrake, “I have been splicing the mainbrace, as Jack says at Wapping—have been tasting Noll’s brandy in a bumper to the King’s health, and another to his Excellency’s confusion, and another to the d—n of Parliament—and it may be one or two more, but all to devilish good toasts. But I’m not drunk.”
“Prithee, friend, be not profane,” said Nehemiah Holdenough.
“What, my little Presbyterian Parson, my slender Mass-John? thou shalt say amen to this world instantly”—said Wildrake; “I have had a weary time in’t for one.—Ha, noble Sir Henry, I kiss your hand—I tell thee, knight, the point of my Toledo was near Cromwell’s heart last night, as ever a button on the breast of his doublet. Rat him, he wears secret armour.—He a soldier! Had it not been for a cursed steel shirt, I would have spitted him like a lark.—Ha, Doctor Rochecliffe!—thou knowest I can wield my weapon.”