The commanding officer and the colonels of six out of seven regiments would call on the troops to cheer for King George when they saw the royal banner at the mast. Inside the mess tent there was a scene of quiet preparation, which had its ludicrous as well as pathetic features. Many of the Royalists had come in military uniforms of various kinds and countries. As the hour drew near they laid aside their overcoats, and composed an odd group for a military critic. The Duke of Bayswater wore an old red tunic of the yeomanry cavalry, which he had commanded in his county half a century before; Mr. Sydney a lancer's fatigue jacket, which he had worn as a lieutenant in King Edward's time; there was one in the tunic of a captain of French artillery, and several others wore continental uniforms. Every one was armed in some way or other. As the infantry brigade wheeled into line on the parade-ground a distant trumpet sounded far in the rear. "Dacre, what is that trumpet?" asked Geoffrey, in a low tone. Dacre looked at his watch as he listened. He did not reply, but shook his head and smiled at Geoffrey. "That is an artillery trumpet," said the old officer to whom Geoffrey had spoken before, and who now came quietly to Dacre. "It came from the direction of Colonel Devereux's battery--though I remember distinctly he told me that this was not a field day." It was clear to Geoffrey's eye that Dacre was suffering under some heavy fear or despondency that quelled his excitement. There was a look in his face of tense expectancy that was pitiful to his friend. "The King was to have been here at eleven," said Geoffrey to him at last. "It is now twenty minutes to twelve. Can anything have happened, Dacre?" Dacre looked at him reproachfully; but only shook his head, without a smile. Geoffrey walked to the door, and turned suddenly, almost with a shout. "Here's Featherstone!" he cried. "He was in the King's escort; he has news." The Royalists crowded around Featherstone as he entered, but their eager eyes found no reassurance in his face, which was pale, and, still more unlike Featherstone, full of anger and gloom. He did not reply to the hail of questions which met him, but looked around for Dacre, and went to him. "The King?" asked Dacre, sternly. "The King has disappeared," answered Featherstone, "and no one knows where he has gone." There was a dead silence in the tent; not a man moved. Dacre looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to twelve. "He may be on the way here by another route," suggested the old Duke. "What have you done to obtain information?" asked Dacre.