Indeed things were going almost too well. Price grew alarmed that the Rump was going to triumph completely, and though his dangerous presence was tabooed by Monk he stole into head-quarters in the dead of night. Rousing the weary soldier from his uneasy couch he implored him to remember the "old known laws." "Mr. Price," said Monk passionately, "I know your meaning, and I have known it. By the grace of God I will do it if ever I can find it in my power; and I do not much doubt but that I shall." Then seizing both his chaplain's hands he said again, "By God's help I will do it." It is perfectly clear that Monk's love for his country inspired him with a desire to see monarchy re-established by a free Parliament as the only durable settlement, and that at this moment he was very hopeful about it.[9] It is equally certain he did not intend to restore Charles by force; and even if a Stuart were in his eyes worth a drop of English blood, even if he had had any faith in a settlement that was founded in civil war, his creed was still unshaken, and he meant so far as in him lay to keep the army from meddling with the civil power. He held the commission of the Rump, and had signified his intention to be loyal to it by signing a manifesto of the army by which he bound himself to restore the Parliament as it was before the late _coup d'état_. Price's anxiety was but too well justified. On the last day of the year a messenger came ploughing through the snow to Coldstream with startling news. Fleetwood's army had mutinied. "The Lord had spit in his face." He had given up the game, and the Rump was sitting again at Westminster. Fortunately it was not the end of the tidings. Fairfax had been compelled to rise prematurely, owing to the discovery of his plot, and Monk promptly issued orders for the little army to concentrate on Coldstream. Despatch after despatch interrupted his preparations. Lilburne's regiment had deserted to Fairfax, and the whole Irish Brigade had followed its example. It was clear that Lambert's only chance was a swift back-stroke at Fairfax, and Monk determined to anticipate the intelligence he hourly expected. As the first gray beams of the year 1660 began to streak the leaden sky they lit up a memorable picture. Erect in his saddle amidst the trampled snow sat the warlike figure of the great soldier of fortune, on whose sagacity hung the destiny of Britain; and past him filed rank after rank the vanguard of his toil-stained troops as they strode cheerily on to cross the white plain of the frozen Tweed.