"Give him water," said one yeoman; "they always crave a drink
after their merry-go-round."
"Aha, water, sayest thou, Long Allen?" exclaimed another archer,
with a most scornful emphasis on the despised element; "how
wouldst like such beverage thyself, after such a morrice
dancing?"
"The devil a water-drop he gets here," said a third. "We will
teach the light-footed old infidel to be a good Christian, and
drink wine of Cyprus."
"Ay, ay," said a fourth; "and in case he be restive, fetch thou
Dick Hunter's horn, that he drenches his mare withal."
A circle was instantly formed around the prostrate and exhausted
dervise, and while one tall yeoman raised his feeble form from
the ground, another presented to him a huge flagon of wine.
Incapable of speech, the old man shook his head, and waved away
from him with his hand the liquor forbidden by the Prophet. But
his tormentors were not thus to be appeased.
"The horn, the horn!" exclaimed one. "Little difference between
a Turk and a Turkish horse, and we will use him conforming.
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