The gentle Johnstone, however, either that he thought the contest unequal, or that he had fought enough for the day, snapping his fingers and throwing his hand out with an air of defiance, spurred his horse into a neighbouring bog, through which he seemed to flutter like a wild duck, swinging his lure round his head, and whistling to his hawk all the while, though any other horse and rider must have been instantly bogged up to the saddle girths.
"There goes a thoroughbred moss trooper," said the smith.

"That fellow will fight or flee as suits his humor, and there is no use to pursue him, any more than to hunt a wild goose.

He has got your purse, I doubt me, for they seldom leave off till they are full handed." "Ye--ye--yes," said Proudfute, in a melancholy tone, "he has got my purse; but there is less matter since he hath left the hawking bag." "Nay, the hawking bag had been an emblem of personal victory, to be sure--a trophy, as the minstrels call it." "There is more in it than that, friend," said Oliver, significantly.
"Why, that is well, neighbour: I love to hear you speak in your own scholarly tone again.

Cheer up, you have seen the villain's back, and regained the trophies you had lost when taken at advantage." "Ah, Henry Gow--Henry Gow--" said the bonnet maker, and stopped short with a deep sigh, nearly amounting to a groan.
"What is the matter ?" asked his friend--"what is it you vex yourself about now ?" "I have some suspicion, my dearest friend, Henry Smith, that the villain fled for fear of you, not of me." "Do not think so," replied the armourer: "he saw two men and fled, and who can tell whether he fled for one or the other?
Besides, he knows by experience your strength and activity: we all saw how you kicked and struggled when you were on the ground." "Did I ?" said poor Proudfute.

"I do not remember it, but I know it is my best point: I am a strong dog in the loins.