_Den_. Out wee't, man. _Baker_. The novyce _Richard_, to save mee a labour, Borrowed my mare to fetch meale for the mill. I knowe not howe the devill Fryar _Jhon_ knew't, But all in armor watch't him gooinge out And after spurrs to chardge him, beeinge unarmd, 0 suer if hee cannott reatch him with his lance Hee'l speede him with his pistolls. _Denis_. All's well yet. [_Noyse_. _Baker_. This noyse hath cal'd much people from there bedds, And troobled the whole villadge. _Fr. R_. (_within_). Hold, hold, I do confesse the murder. _Baker_. Suer hee hath slayne him, for murder is confest. _D'Av_. Tis better still. _Enter Ashburne, Godfrey, &c_. _Godf_. Was never knowne the lyke! _Baker_. Is _Ritchard_ slayne? I sawe Fryar _Jhon_, arm'd dreadfully with weapons Not to be worne in peace, pursue his lyfe; All which I'l tell the abbott. [_Exit Baker_. _Ashb_. Most strange it is that the pursude is fownd To bee the murderer, the pursuer slayne. Howe was it, _Godfrey_? thou wast upp beefore mee And canst discoorse it best. _Godfr_. Thus, Syr: at noyse of murder, with the tramplinge Of horse and ratlinge armor in the streetes, The villadgers weare wakend from there sleepes; Som gap't out of there windowes, others venter'd Out of theere doores; amongst which I was one That was the foremost, and saw _Ritchard_ stopt At a turninge lane, then overtooke by _Jhon_; Who not him self alone, but even his horse Backing the tother's beast, seemd with his feete To pawe him from his saddle; att this assault Friar _Richard_ cryes, hold, hold and haunt mee not For I confesse the murder! folke came in Fownd th'one i'th sadle dead, the t'other sprallinge Upon the earthe alyve, still cryinge out That hee had doun the murder. _D'Av_. Exellent still; withdrawe, for wee are saffe. _Enter the Abbott, the baker, Fryar Richard, prisoner and guarded, &c_.[149]-- _Abbott_. These mischeefes I foretould; what's mallyce elsse Than murder halff comitted? though th'event Bee allmost above apprehension strange, Yet synce thyne owne confession pleades thee guilty Thou shalt have leagall tryall. _Fr. Rich_. I confess I was the malefactor and deserve Th'extremity of Lawe; but woonder much Howe hee in such a short tyme after death Should purchase horse and weapons. _Abbot_. Murder's a sinne Which often is myraculously reveal'd. Lett justyce question that; beare him to prison, The t'other to his grave. _Baker_. Beeinge so valiant after deathe mee thinkes hee deserves the honor to bee buried lyke a knight in his compleate armor. _Abbot_. These thinges shoold not bee trifled. Honest frendes, Retyre you to your homes; these are our chardge. Wee will acquaint our patron with this sadd And dyre desaster; fyrst his counsell use, Next as wee maye our Innocens excuse. [_Exeunt_. SCENA 3, ET ULTIMA. _Enter Mildewe and Sarleboyes_.[150]