CHAPTER XVII
Come hither, young one,--Mark me! Thou art now
'Mongst men o' the sword, that live by reputation
More than by constant income--Single-suited
They are, I grant you; yet each single suit
Maintains, on the rough guess, a thousand followers--
And they be men, who, hazarding their all,
Needful apparel, necessary income,
And human body, and immortal soul,
Do in the very deed but hazard nothing--
So strictly is that ALL bound in reversion;
Clothes to the broker, income to the usurer,
And body to disease, and soul to the foul fiend;
Who laughs to see Soldadoes and Fooladoes,
Play better than himself his game on earth.
_The Mohocks._
"Your lordship," said Reginald Lowestoffe, "must be content to
exchange your decent and court-beseeming rapier, which I will retain
in safe keeping, for this broadsword, with an hundredweight of rusty
iron about the hilt, and to wear these huge-paned slops, instead of
your civil and moderate hose. We allow no cloak, for your ruffian
always walks in _cuerpo_; and the tarnished doublet of bald velvet,
with its discoloured embroidery, and--I grieve to speak it--a few
stains from the blood of the grape, will best suit the garb of a
roaring boy. I will leave you to change your suit for an instant, till
I can help to truss you."
Lowestoffe retired, while slowly, and with hesitation, Nigel obeyed
his instructions.
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