A stranger gave Barnaby a blue cockade and bade him wear it, and while he was still fixing it in his hat Lord Gordon and his secretary, Gashford, passed, and then turned back. "You lag behind, friend, and are late," said Lord George. "It's past ten now. Didn't you know the hour of assemblage was ten o'clock?" Barnaby shook his head, and looked vacantly from one to the other. "He cannot tell you, sir," the widow interposed. "It's no use to ask him. We know nothing of these matters. This is my son--my poor, afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. He is not in his right senses--he is not, indeed." "He has surely no appearance," said Lord George, whispering in his secretary's ear, "of being deranged. We must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness. You desire to make one of this body?" he added, addressing Barnaby. "And intended to make one, did you?" "Yes, yes," said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. "To be sure, I did. I told her so myself." "Then follow me." replied Lord George, "and you shall have your wish." Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly, and telling her their fortunes were made now, did as he was desired. They hastened on to St. George's Fields, where the vast army of men was drawn up in sections. Doubtless there were honest zealots sprinkled here and there, but for the most part the throng was composed of the very scum and refuse of London. Barnaby was acclaimed by a man in the ranks, Hugh, the rough hostler of the Maypole, whom Barnaby in his frequent wanderings had long known. "What! you wear the colour, do you? Fall in, Barnaby. You shall march between me and Dennis, and you shall carry," said Hugh, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man, "the gayest silken streamer in this valiant army." "In the name of God, no!" shrieked the widow, who had followed in pursuit and now darted forward. "Barnaby, my lord, he'll come back--Barnaby!" "Women in the field!" cried Hugh, stepping between them, and holding her off with his outstretched hand. "It's against all orders--ladies carrying off our gallant soldiers from their duty. Give the word of command, captain." The words, "Form! March!" rang out. She was thrown to the ground; the whole field was in motion; Barnaby was whirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and the widow saw him no more. Barnaby himself, heedless of the weight of the great banner he carried, marched proud, happy, and elated past all telling. Hugh was at his side, and next to Hugh came a squat, thick-set personage called Dennis, who, unknown to his companions, was no other than the public hangman. "I wish I could see her somewhere," said Barnaby, looking anxiously around. "She would be proud to see me now, eh, Hugh? She'd cry with joy, I know she would." "Why, what palaver's this?" asked Mr. Dennis, with supreme disdain. "We ain't got no sentimental members among us, I hope." "Don't be uneasy, brother," cried Hugh, "he's only talking of his mother."