Host. Wilt thou be quiet; I see no jest.

Will. Nay, I’ll be bound not.  Sa!  Sa!

Host. Laugh an thou likest; but put up thy toasting-iron.

Will. Well, thou hast reason for thanksgiving.  But I think thy wife was right, if the poor gentleman’s thrust was drunken, ’twas a compliment to thy wine.  A scurvy rogue to ask for his money when he was poor, and thy wine did affect him.

Host. But to speak seriously, good Will, what bringeth thee here?  Who is thy master!  Can I assist thee in anything?

Will. Well, I pity thee, and will say no more.  My master is young Arthur Walton.  He hath returned.  He gave up the fortune to his brother Basil.

Host. I thought he was settled abroad.

Will. No! no!  He is here, and now he wanteth assistance from his brother; for we are in some present straits, and this Basil will have nought to say to him.  What I shall want of thee is information of the family; and mayhap thy daughter will have to see Mistress Florence for us with a message.

[Enter TAPSTER and two or three Roundhead Soldiers, L.]

Tap. Master, master! here be soldiers quartered on us.

Will. The Philistines be upon thee!

Host. O Lord!——­be praised.  See directly and water the double ale—­Tell my daughter to lock up the Trinidado tobaccos—­Haste!

[Enter IRETON, HARRISON, and Soldiers, L.U.E.]

Ire. [Reading Papers.] Give us to drink, good measure; for the flesh is thirsty.  That we have shall be paid.  Who is that fellow [points to William] with his sword drawn?

Har. Ha! a malignant.—­Smite him!

Sold. Lo! he shall die.

Host. Hold! hold! ’tis an innocent youth.  He did but draw his weapon to defy the evil one.  He is strong in prayer. [To William aside.] Speak quickly, an thou lovest thyself—­something from Tobit, or the Psalmody.

Har. Thou hearest—­Sin-Despise! touch not the youth.  Lo, I myself have wrestled with the powers of darkness. [To William.] In what shape cometh he?

Will. With horns, an’t please you, [Aside.] very like Master Newborn there.

Har. [To himself.] With me ’tis different.  In the curtain’d night,
A Form comes shrieking on me,
With such an edg’d and preternatural cry
’T would stir the blood of clustering bats from sleep,
Tear their hook’d wings from out the mildew’d eaves,
And drive them circling forth—­
I tell ye that I fight with him until
The sweat like blood puts out my burning eyes. 
Call you this dreaming?

Will. [Aside to the Host.] Dost think the gentleman eats suppers?

Ire. A plague upon his damn’d repentant fancies!