"Fire and sword!" cried Egerton. "Ye are apt at a simile; but, methinks,
these be your own similitudes."
"They give their prisoners no quarter," said Morgan; "and why should we
sheath the sword when a weapon is at our own throat?"
"Why, doubtless they have more mouths to feed than they can conveniently
supply," said the more pacific personage. "Living men, to keep them so,
even though prisoners, require feeding."
"Our vengeance is sure, though tardy," said Rigby, rising in great
choler. "The blood of these martyrs crieth from the ground. To-morrow!"
and he breathed a bloody vow, looking fiercely up to heaven in the
daring and impious attitude of revenge.
"We had best give her ladyship another summons; which, if she refuse,
her blood be upon her own head!" Saying this, Egerton abruptly left the
council.
On the next morning, which was cold and drizzly, a "pragmatical" drummer
went out from the nearer trench, beating his drum for a parley, lest his
person should be dismissed without ceremony to the hungry kites.
Early had he been summoned to Rigby's lodging, where Ashton and Morgan
were contriving a furious epistle to the contumacious defenders of their
lives and substance.
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