The aim was good, for the heavy horn struck the wretched scribe upon the nose so that the ink squirted all over his face, and felled him to the floor.
"Now there is more in your eye than truth," shouted the King.

"Be off, ere the stool follows the inkpot." Two ladies who stood by the fire talking together and taking no heed, for to such rude scenes they seemed to be accustomed, looked up and laughed a little, then went on talking, while Cromwell smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

Then in the midst of the silence which followed Thomas Bolle, who had been watching open-mouthed, ejaculated in his great voice-- "A bull's eye! A noble bull! Myself cannot throw straighter." "Silence, fool," hissed Emlyn.
"Who spoke ?" asked the king, looking towards them sharply.
"Please, my Liege, it was I, Thomas Bolle." "Thomas Bolle! Can you sling a stone, Thomas Bolle, whoever you may be ?" "Aye, Sire, but not better than you, I think.

That was a gallant shot." "Thomas Bolle, you are right.

Seeing the hurry and the unhandiness of the missile, it was excellent.