"It shall end but in the blood of the arch-traitor himself!" spoke suddenly the nasal, whining voice of Master Jones the preacher. "So the king has fled! And none too soon. Yet ere his turn comes yet another of his minions shall suffer a righteous vengeance. I warrant you it shall not be long ere the archbishop's head shall roll from the scaffold! You love passing well his some-time chaplain, Master Taylor, your vicar's bosom-friend, who wisely hides his head with his wife and babes in his fair Rectory at Uppingham, while his aged master's head lies on a prison pillow! Yet even he had best beware! Will you hear what the friend of his boyhood, Master John Milton, hath to say of Popery and Prelacy? I promise you he can write other than fine poems when it pleases him, and the Lord hath verily laid His hand upon his mouth for a season that it may turn from vain and unprofitable rhymings to utter brave words against your accursed bishops and their false king. Here, in my hand, is a masterpiece of learning, good sirs, writ by the hand of your poet, truly a godly inspiration, breathing forth the divine wrath right nobly against him whom you yet vainly call the 'Lord's anointed.' Thinketh he verily to escape the vengeance of a people righteously indignant? How long, O Lord, how long?" And the dismal groans of the preacher and his followers rent the twilight air, and they smote their breasts and rolled the whites of their eyes towards heaven. "The river is cold, Master Jones," said Jack, his voice trembling with anger, "but nought shall prevent me, though we be both aged men and grey-haired, from giving thee, an thou dost not hold thy peace, such a ducking therein as thou shalt remember to thy cost! If thou hast the famed Master Milton to back thee in thy heresy and sedition, thou art at least here in this valley among loyal friends of the king, who, if they do perchance bemoan among themselves his human failings, as friends may, yet are ready to die in his cause. Away with thee and thy pestilent pamphlets, and the pillory be thy portion an thou canst not set bounds to thy miscreant tongue!" At such valorous words, accompanied by sundry threatening movements among the crowd, the preacher glided away softly in the darkness, murmuring as he went: "How long, O Lord, how long!" in dismal, nasal whine, till he was out of hearing.