Devil (whom they talk so much about) got among them,
and they began quarrelling and fighting; and a pity it is he did not
come a little sooner and carry off that cowardly Lord who let his
prisoners be shot in cold blood, because he could not beat them when
they had arms in their hands. Had it not been for him, the finest young
man Lancashire ever bred would have been alive and merry with his noble
father at this moment. I don't wonder Your Reverence weeps and wrings
your hands. I would have died a thousand times to save him; and if ever
I may shew my face in the open day-light again, I'll go to Pembroke and
beg Dr. Lloyd to let me take Fido to Mistress Constantia. Poor Fido! Mr.
Eustace hid him all through the siege, or the garrison would have eat
him. We gave him a morsel out of our own mess, and that was short
commons enough. I fancy I see him walking after Mr. Eustace when he went
to be shot, and then sitting on his body. I warrant they found the lock
of Mrs. Constantia's hair lying on his heart; for he looked at it every
day, and swore he never would part with it. O! that I had died instead
of him; there is nobody to grieve for Ralph Jobson!"

Thus imitating the artifice, while unable to catch the spirit of the
Grecian painter, I describe sorrow as personified in a faithful
attendant, and leave the reader's imagination to picture the frantic
father and the fainting mistress of Eustace--affliction wearing the form
of a ministering angel in Isabel, and that of a mourning patriarch in
Dr. Beaumont--all tracing the ruin of their dearest hopes to the same
iniquitous source; yet all agreeing that it was better to die with
virtue than to live with guilt; to be immolated on the shrine of alarmed
ambition, rather than to be the bloody hierarch who dragged the
sacrifice to the altar.

[1] In the account of what passed at Pembroke-Castle, the author
has not adhered to history or chronology; but the similar barbarity
and breach of contract, which took place at Colchester, justifies
the narration.

[2] This is copied from what passed at Colchester.

CHAP. XX.

I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(The image of his Maker) hope to win by it?
Corruption gains not more than honesty.

Shakspeare.

Among the victims whom the crimes and fears of Lord Bellingham made
supremely wr