a bead-roll you have read me of old comrades, and to every man’s name tacked some ill-omened motto! And so Swashing Will of Wallingford hath bid us good-night?”
“He died the death of a fat buck,” said one of the party, “being shot with a crossbow bolt, by old Thatcham, the Duke’s stout park-keeper at Donnington Castle.”
“Ay, ay, he always loved venison well,” replied Michael, “and a cup of claret to boot—and so here’s one to his memory. Do me right, my masters.”
When the memory of this departed worthy had been duly honoured, Lambourne proceeded to enquire after Prance of Padworth.
“Pranced off—made immortal ten years since,” said the mercer: “marry, sir, Oxford Castle and Goodman Thong, and a tenpenny-worth of cord, best know how.”
“What, so they hung poor Prance high and dry? so much for loving to walk by moonlight—a cup to his memory, my masters—all merry fellows like moonlight. What has become of Hal with the Plume?—he who lived near Yattenden, and wore the long feather—I forget his name.”
“What, Hal Hempseed?” replied the mercer, “why, you may remember he was a sort of a gentleman, and would meddle in state matters, and so he got into the mire about the Duke of Norfolk’s affair these two or three years since, fled the country with a pursuivant’s warrant at his heels, and has never since been heard of.”
“Nay, after these baulks,” said Michael Lam-
