The room was packed; and never saw I such a piteous sight as was presented by that crowd of gaping, moon-struck faces, which, as it seemed to me, stared forth like poor penned cattle into certain doom. On each was writ in fatal characters the one word--Death! Yet all were mighty eager to be signing on; in truth, by the pressing and the jostling it might have been the statutes at a fair. On a little platform at one end of the room, and not far from where I was standing, sat Monmouth with his officers--Lord Grey, Fletcher of Saltoun, Old Dare (as he was called), the Taunton goldsmith, and others whom I knew not. The Duke, all smiles and bows, watched everything with eager, anxious eyes, and even spoke a word or two when one big strapping fellow, towering high above the rest of them, stepped up to volunteer. But for me there was small interest either in Monmouth or those who flocked to serve him. My eyes were fixed upon a wry-wigged gentleman who sat before a little table taking down the names. Yes, there, in all his blotch-faced ugliness--a hulking, bony, ill-dressed heap of perfidy--sat Robert Ferguson, the Plotter. His pen was whirling like a windmill; he seemed to catch a name up with the feather of his quill and run it down on paper wellnigh as soon as it was spoken; and all the time he never ceased to jerk forth jests and mock encouragement to those who, in their ignorance, were little more than clay within his hands. Thus, as I entered, he was saying: "Come on, my friends, come on! Ah, what amazing, lovely zeal is this which moves your hearts! Fear not, the Lord of Hosts is with us, as the Scripture hath it, and verily we must prevail. The next--the next! ... Now, by my life, if such a fine upstanding man as thou shouldst not be captain in a month or so! Yes ... yes ... or more, perchance. Come on! the next! Oh, who shall stand against such zeal as this upon the day of battle? Ah, who, indeed? Not those, I trow, whose hands are stained with blood! Not those who have forsworn the Lord of Hosts and set up their abominations in high places. Not those, I say, not those! The next, the next! Come on, I pray you, speedily, or we shall hear the cock crow ere we’ve finished. What’s that you say, friend? Yes, yes, I have you down quite clearly to the very letter: Uriah Smite--and may you smite full lustily! That is a merry jest, but something to the point, I vow. Back, friend, I pray you, and make room for him who stands behind.... Ah, what’s that? You fought with Cromwell, say you? Truly, a handsome warrant for your zeal; and may you fight as well for us. Grey hairs, when mixed with zeal and wisdom, count for much. And as for that sword-cut on your face, well, what adornment could outvie it in true loveliness? ...