One Peter Varwell, a fisherman, described as a short, thick-set little man, then jumped into the water and carried the Deliverer to land. We are not told how the Duke of Schomberg and Bishop Burnet, among other great ones, came ashore; I am afraid they had to hoof it through the water and the fish-offal. But when Burnet _did_ set foot upon the quay, the prince, turning to him and taking his hand, asked if he did not believe now, more than ever, in predestination. This was by way of a gentle rebuke to that distinguished Churchman’s want of faith during the preparations for the expedition, when at every mischance he had dejectedly said the enterprise seemed to be predestined to failure. CHAPTER XVII LANDING OF WILLIAM OF ORANGE The landing was completed in three hours, without a hitch and was followed by divine service on the beach, concluded by all the troops singing the 118th Psalm, which is at once a psalm of thanksgiving for mercies received, and a bidding for others. Reading it, you conceive the Psalmist as timorously thankful, buoyed up by faith to a certain degree, and yet horribly frightened; and thus, there can be no doubt, it was highly appropriate to the situation in which all at that moment found themselves. We may, perhaps, suspect that the eighth verse, which deprecates confidence being put in princes, was omitted for this occasion. An absurd story tells us that the inhabitants of Brixham (or “Broxholme,” as the Dutch called it), presented an address to the prince, in this form: “And please your majesty, King William, You’re welcome to Brixham Quay, To eat buckhorn, and drink bohea Along with we And please your majesty, King William.” The individually quite sufficient objections to this are that the prince was not yet acknowledged king, and that tea was then unknown at Brixham; and in any case, it would have been an expensive luxury far beyond the reach of fisherfolk. What “buckhorn” may have been is a mystery not revealed to the present generation. The place was thronged that day and night with the expeditionary force, and the landlord of the one inn that then sufficed for the thirst of the whole community—it was probably the “Buller’s Arms,” quite recently rebuilt—was, according to the diarist who recorded all these things, so puffed up with the honour of serving so many lords that he almost imagined himself to be one. William himself was lodged in the house, still standing in Middle Street, the home of the little man, Varwell, who afterwards marched with the army on to Exeter, and was promised a reward for his services. Unhappy Varwell! He went later, to London, and fell to gossiping with strangers in a tavern, with the result that they drugged him and sent one of their confederates to Whitehall to claim the promised recompense. He was paid a hundred guineas, and when the real Varwell put in an appearance, he was not only sent empty away, but received a good thrashing as well.