And if Bridgenorth takes the chase after us, I shall not be sorry to have a knock at him for one." "Why, the man, bating he is a pestilent Roundhead and Puritan," said Whitaker, "is no bad neighbour.

What has he done to thee, man ?" "He has poached on the manor," answered the keeper.
"The devil he has!" replied Whitaker.

"Thou must be jesting, Lance.
Bridgenorth is neither hunter nor hawker; he hath not so much of honesty in him." "Ay, but he runs after game you little think of, with his sour, melancholy face, that would scare babes and curdle milk," answered Lance.
"Thou canst not mean the wenches ?" said Whitaker; "why, he hath been melancholy mad with moping for the death of his wife.

Thou knowest our lady took the child, for fear he should strangle it for putting him in mind of its mother, in some of his tantrums.

Under her favour, and among friends, there are many poor Cavaliers' children, that care would be better bestowed upon--But to thy tale." "Why, thus it runs," said Lance.