

“Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no
more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that
the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to
witness that to blame _me_ for that miscarriage were like holding the
unborn babe to judgment for sins com--”

“Out of my sight, idiot!  Thy prating drives me mad!  Hold! Whither art
flying?  Canst not bide still an instant?  Went they toward Southwark?”

“Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that detestable
joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--”

“Art here _yet_!  And prating still!  Vanish, lest I throttle thee!” The
servitor vanished.