“It is likely, I think, he will send thee hither with letters to me,” said the Colonel, “enabling me to put a stop to the proceedings of these sequestrators, and to give poor old Sir Henry Lee permission to linger out his days among the oaks he loves to look upon. I have made this my request to General Cromwell, and I think my father’s friendship and my own may stretch so far on his regard without risk of cracking, especially standing matters as they now do—thou dost understand?” “Entirely well,” said the cavalier; “stretch, quotha!—I would rather stretch a rope than hold commerce with the old King-killing ruffian. But I have said I will be guided by thee, Markham, and rat me but I will.” “Be cautious, then,” said Everard, “mark well what he does and says—more especially what he does; for Oliver is one of those whose mind is better known by his actions than by his words; and stay—I warrant thee thou wert setting off without a cross in thy purse?” “Too true, Mark,” said Wildrake; “the last noble melted last night among yonder blackguard troopers of yours.” “Well, Roger,” replied the Colonel, “that is easily mended.” So saying, he slipped his purse into his friend’s hand. “But art thou not an inconsiderate weather-brained fellow, to set forth as thou wert about to do, without any thing to bear thy charges; what couldst thou have done?” “Faith, I never thought of that; I must have cried _Stand_, I suppose, to the first pursy townsman or greasy grazier that I met o’ the heath—it is many a good fellow’s shift in these bad times.” “Go to,” said Everard; “be cautious—use none of your loose acquaintance—rule your tongue—beware of the wine-pot—for there is little danger if thou couldst only but keep thyself sober—Be moderate in speech, and forbear oaths or vaunting.” “In short, metamorphose myself into such a prig as thou art, Mark,— Well,” said Wildrake, “so far as outside will go, I think I can make a _Hope-on-High-Bomby_[1] as well as thou canst. Ah! those were merry days when we saw Mills present Bomby at the Fortune playhouse, Mark, ere I had lost my laced cloak and the jewel in my ear, or thou hadst gotten the wrinkle on thy brow, and the puritanic twist of thy mustache!” [1] A puritanic character in one of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays. “They were like most worldly pleasures, Wildrake,” replied Everard, “sweet in the mouth and bitter in digestion.—But away with thee; and when thou bring’st back my answer, thou wilt find me either here or at Saint George’s Inn, at the little borough.—Good luck to thee—Be but cautious how thou bearest thyself.”