[_Exit Baker_.
_Ashb_. Most strange it is that the pursude is fownd
To bee the murderer, the pursuer slayne.
Howe was it, _Godfrey_? thou wast upp beefore mee
And canst discoorse it best.
_Godfr_. Thus, Syr: at noyse of murder, with the tramplinge
Of horse and ratlinge armor in the streetes,
The villadgers weare wakend from there sleepes;
Som gap't out of there windowes, others venter'd
Out of theere doores; amongst which I was one
That was the foremost, and saw _Ritchard_ stopt
At a turninge lane, then overtooke by _Jhon_;
Who not him self alone, but even his horse
Backing the tother's beast, seemd with his feete
To pawe him from his saddle; att this assault
Friar _Richard_ cryes, hold, hold and haunt mee not
For I confesse the murder! folke came in
Fownd th'one i'th sadle dead, the t'other sprallinge
Upon the earthe alyve, still cryinge out
That hee had doun the murder.
_D'Av_. Exellent still; withdrawe, for wee are saffe.
_Enter the Abbott, the baker, Fryar Richard, prisoner
and guarded, &c_.
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