Futile in the extreme! The intending suicide assured them that they had but frustrated his purpose for a time. He could have borne the loss of home and fortune--his friends might judge, from the sole remaining tower, of what a dwelling the rebels had deprived him (though, of course, they could have no conception of the extent of the family jewels, plate, &c.); but what he could not bear was the sight of his faithful steward, hung by the heels like an unclean beast, doubtless as a punishment for his fidelity! “Bardolph!” sobbed the ruined man. “How we loved him!” “Don’t speak of it, sir!” Bardolph himself was so overcome that he did not venture to show his face, which he concealed within his palms. The latter, it should be stated, were more than capacious enough for the purpose. “He loved you, Bardolph!” “Like a mother, sir. But don’t!” The Flemish merchant then tried vinous consolation from his private flask. Falstaff rejected it. Bardolph didn’t. Falstaff--calmed in a measure, but determined--begged of his friends to make the best of their way to London, and leave him to die. He had now nothing left in the world but his sword. That, he was now too brokenhearted to turn to advantage. Would they be kind enough to go, leaving him their forgiveness for the trouble he had so unwittingly caused them. That was all! Stay--another boon--a dying man’s request. Would they promise to be kind to his faithful Bardolph, the last of a thousand devoted retainers? “Don’t, sir!” that valuable relic gasped, kicking out his right leg spasmodically. Now, the Lombard creditor, in spite of his being a trader in money, was a good-natured fellow. He hit upon a third and more efficacious means of consolation--to wit, the pecuniary. “Come, Master Falstaff’,” he said kindly, in the cosmopolite French of the period. “Things are not at the worst. You are young and strong, and, with a good name to back you, may recover lost ground. Who ever knew an outbreak of peasants last over a few days? If a few hundred marks will set you on your legs for a time, they are yours; and no questions about the past till you are ready to answer them. Remember you have promised to bring us to London and show us the Court. We are in your hands.” Jack leaped to his feet and dried his eyes. He was rebuked. This was no time for selfish considerations. His eyes were opened. “When I reflect,” he said, “that, without me, your lives are not safe; that those fierce Kentish rebels will spare nobody, unless guaranteed by the safe conduct of a true man of Kent; for, after all, they must respect my presence--come, gentlemen, I will see you safe to London, and the young king shall hear of your devotion.” What a good sort of fellow this poor ruined, broken-hearted Jack Falstaff was after all!