"Ay, dear, dear," meditated Astbury, in a maudlin tone of regret.  "The Major, he was a fine soldier, and no mistake.  I'd rather than a cup of strong waters ride behind him when fighting was toward, and see the pleasure he took in it!  Seemeth, whatever the Major did, us was bound to do, whether 'twas fighting or praying; 'twas somehow catching, like as 'twas the plague.  You may believe me, sir, I got afeared of keeping along o' him; he'd have turned me into a saint before I could wink. When he looked at you--why General Cromwell himself was put to it to say him nay!  Aye, dear, dear, 'tis a pity."