wandered for a time, lost friends and kin to cold and starvation,
MR. CHAINMAIL. When I suspended these arms for ornament, I never dreamed of their being called into use.
MR. SKIONAR. Let me address them. I never failed to convince an audience that the best thing they could do was to go away.
MR. MAC QUEDY. Eh! sir, I can bring them to that conclusion in less time than you.
MR. CROTCHET. I have no fancy for fighting. It is a very hard case upon a guest, when the latter end of a feast is the beginning of a fray.
MR. MAC QUEDY. Give them the old iron.
REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. Give them the weapons! Pessimo, medius fidius, exemplo. Forbid it the spirit of Frere Jean des Entommeures! No! let us see what the church militant, in the armour of the twelfth century, will do against the march of mind. Follow me who will, and stay who list. Here goes: Pro aris et focis! that is, for tithe pigs and fires to roast them.
He clapped a helmet on his head, seized a long lance, threw open the gates, and tilted out on the rabble, side by side with Mr. Chainmail, followed by the greater portion of the male inmates of the hall, who had armed themselves at random.
The rabble-rout, being unprepared for such a sortie, fled in all directions, over hedge and ditch.
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