Before him lay the moorland, growing mistier and a little unreal in the failing light. To his left, clustering roofs round a church tower, was a village, so silent that none but the dead might have been its inhabitants. Not a labourer plodded homewards from his toil in the fields; not a horse, freed from its harness, grazed in the fields. To his right, sharply cutting the distant sky-line, rose a tall spire, a landmark for miles round. "The end of our journey," he murmured, patting the horse's neck, "and they won't thank us for coming." The horse appeared to understand, and started forward again, shaking himself as though to throw off his weariness. His rider had smiled a little sadly as he spoke, but now his face was set again, as one who rides upon an unpleasant mission but is not to be turned aside from fulfilling it, no matter what the cost may be. It was not long before he entered Bridgwater, and, had he not known that it was so, the aspect of the town would have shown him that he was in the midst of some great event. At no time would he be a man to pass unnoticed, but here his coming caused excitement. Words of welcome were flung at him, and anxious questions shouted after him. There was a feverish eagerness in the atmosphere, and if some faces which he saw at windows and in doorways had a look of fear in them, they were in the minority, and were not anxious to invite attention to themselves. "Duke!" one man exclaimed in answer to the rider's question. "He is no duke who is at the castle, but a king--King Monmouth. Yesterday, in the market-place at Taunton, they proclaimed him." "I had not heard," said the rider. "Do you come alone?" asked the man. "Quite alone." "Each man counts--may count for much--but you should have ridden in at the head of a troop. We'd have cracked our throats with roaring a welcome." The rider smiled, and passed on to the castle. Here was the centre of bustle and excitement, constant coming and going, hastily given orders, and general clamour. In the castle field was encamped an army of six thousand men, a rabble truly, and poorly armed, many having naught but their tools for weapons, but enthusiasts all, certain of the righteousness of their cause, prepared to die for the King they had made and whom they trusted and loved. There was order of a sort, but it seemed strangely like confusion to the horseman as he dismounted within the courtyard. Here again a welcome met him, but it was with difficulty he could get a message carried to King Monmouth. Would he not see Lord Grey who was in charge of the cavalry, or Master Ferguson who could tell him all he wanted to know--or Buyse, or Wade, or-- "Monmouth, blockhead--and Monmouth only," was the angry retort. "And quickly, or you'll suffer for such laggard service."