ed not
for me. It is all over now. The king hath no more
chance than a butterfly three days at sea amongst a
covey of Mother Carey's chickens. I would pursue,
but lack spurs and a horse, or you should not find me
here; [_Aside._] or within ten miles of it.

_Troop._ Get me some water, friend!

_Will._ Ah! you would have watered me in a pond
two days since; but here--this is better than water.

[_The Soldier takes a flask from him._]

_Troop._ I think thou saidst that the malignants
were smitten. Praised be the Lord! Yet I would I
had not seen my father's white hairs amid yon
accursed red coats. I parried a stroke from him that
must have jarred the old man's arm.

[_Falls back exhausted._]

_Will._ An' this be not a lesson! I have no father
that is a malignant, and could therefore only undergo
simple murder. However, [_touching the hilt of his
sword_] rest thou there! in Mercy's hallowed name--nay
more, as rashness is animal, so a due timidity
is soul, which is mind, and I have a great mind to
run away, and mind being soul, I think I have a
greater soul than Alexander.

[_A loud discharge of cannon, L._]

Now if it were not for that, this foolish brute, my
body, might rush off in that direction, but it don't,
for a great mind prevents it, therefore--

[_Stage more dark. He runs off in an opposite
direction to the shot, R. More wounded enter
and fall down, U.E.L._]

_Enter an Old Man in the King's uniform, of red coats, L._

_Old Man._ I thought the day was ours. The headlong Rupert
Swept all before him, like the wind that bends
The thin and unkind corn, his men were numb
With slaying, and their chargers straddling, blown
With undue speed, as they had hunted that
Which could not turn again--e'en thus was Rupert,
When round to meet his squadrons came a host
Like whirlwind to the wind.
There was a moment that the blood-surge roll'd
Hither and thither, while you saw in the air
Ten thousand bright blades, and as many eyes
Of flame flashed terribly. Then Rupert stay'd
His hot hand in amazement,
And all his blood-stain'd chivalry grew pale:
The hunters, chang'd to quarry, fled amain,
I saw the prince's jet-black, favourite barb
Thrown on her haunches; then away, away,
Her speed did bear him safe. Then there came one,
A grisly man, with head all bare and grey,
That shouted, "Smite and scatter, spare not, ho!
Ye chosen of the Lord!" and they did smite,
As on the anvil; till the plumed