The day was dying slowly, the west still aglow after the sinking of the sun. Thin wreaths of mist were rising from the wide, deep trenches, or "rhines," as the country folk called them, which intersected and drained this moorland, making cultivation possible where once had been a great marshy pool with shifting islands here and there, and rush-covered swamps.

Silence was over the land, broken now and again by the call of a bird, and presently by the quick beating of hoofs. A solitary horseman came rapidly along a road which skirted the edge of the moor. He was dusty with a long journey, and his horse came to a standstill at the first tightening of the rein. The rider had been in the saddle since early morning, and although he had not loitered on his journey, his eyes and ears had been keenly set all day, and, whenever practicable, he had chosen by-paths in preference to the main road. His was a mission which might bring him many dangers, and enemies even amongst those he sought to befriend.

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."

He spoke with such authority that there was whispered speculation who this stranger might be. Perhaps he was the first of those nobles who had promised to draw swords with them in the great cause. A messenger went quickly, and soon returned. The King would see him at once.

As the stranger entered the chamber where half a dozen men were gathered, one man rose and came forward to meet him.

"Gilbert Crosby!" he exclaimed. "Never was friend more welcome."

His face, somewhat gloomy a moment before, was suddenly lit with a brilliant smile, so winning, so full of charming graciousness, that it was easy to understand the influence such a leader must have over the army of enthusiasts gathered in the town of Bridgwater. He was a handsome man, in appearance a born leader of men; and if Gilbert Crosby understood some of the shortcomings which lay underneath this attractive exterior, he could not remember them just now. There was the temptation to offer himself heart and soul to this man and forget the self-imposed mission on which he had come. He had been brought in contact with Monmouth some years ago, had begun, perhaps, by pitying, and had ended by giving him a friendship which was truer and stauncher than any other he had ever possessed. When, a few years since, Monmouth had been fÊted throughout Somersetshire and Devon, Crosby had been much in his company, had entertained him modestly at his own manor, and had been at that sumptuous feast given in honour of the Duke by Thynne of Longleat.

"Gentlemen, this is a very dear friend of mine," said Monmouth, turning and presenting him to the company, "Mr. Gilbert Crosby of Lenfield Manor, than whom we could not welcome a better gentleman."

"Pardon, my lord, but—"

"Ye've come to help a great cause," said a long, lean man, bent in the shoulder, and with lantern jaws which mouthed out his words in the strongest of Scotch accents. "I'm Ferguson. Ye've heard of me; and I'm saying it's a fight against the enemies of the Lord ye've come to wage."

"I would not be misunderstood," said Crosby, turning to Monmouth; "I came to talk with you in private, not to fight."

"I regret to hear you say so," Monmouth answered. "I am rather weary of advice, but come with me." And then, having taken a few steps towards a door leading to another room, he stopped. "No, Crosby; friendship must stand aside for a while. I must have no secrets from these comrades, who are with me heart and soul in this enterprise."

"That's better—much better," said Ferguson. "Let us hear the man and his communication. It is no more than the right of those who are bearing the heat and burden of the day."

"I would urge that our conversation be in private," said Crosby.

"And I would urge otherwise," said Ferguson. "Such a desire for privacy has the savour of treachery about it."

"Can a man be a traitor to a cause he has never espoused?" Crosby asked quietly.

"Is it, then, that ye are afraid to speak before honest men?" Ferguson demanded roughly, the eruption with which his face was plentifully covered glowing a fiery red as he thrust his head forward like an angry vulture.

"Afraid!"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I will have no quarrelling," said Monmouth. "I will go bail for my friend, even though he does not throw in his lot with us. I warrant he has naught but kindness in his heart for me, and that kindness has brought him to Bridgwater."

"The gentleman can certainly not be accused of cowardice if he comes to vilify your friends," said one man. "That requires courage."

"That is true, Grey," said Monmouth. "Speak freely, Crosby, as you would to me were we alone; or, if you regret coming, keep silent. You shall sup with us to-night, and to-morrow depart. We will force no man to raise a hand for us."

"Why make promises until we have heard the man's communication?" growled Ferguson. "Those who are not for the Lord are for Baal; there is no middle course."

"The purpose for which I came shall be fulfilled," said Crosby. "You gentlemen know nothing of me, nor I of you, except that you stand by the side of your new-made king. For that I can honour you; on your side, pray give me credit for honesty."

"Words, words, like sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal," said
Ferguson.

"Most assuredly such words, with their specious promises, have had much to do with this enterprise," Crosby retorted; and then, turning to Monmouth, he went on earnestly: "You have been deceived by lying agents, such men as Wildman and Danvers. By this time you must know that London will not raise a finger nor spend a guinea to help you, and that there is not a single Whig nobleman who will draw a sword on your behalf."

"You are full of news, sir," sneered Ferguson. "You must be deep in the
councils of our enemies to know so much. And why limit yourself to
Wildman and Danvers when you speak of liars and deceivers? I am
Ferguson—everybody knows me. This is Lord Grey of Wark. Here stands
Fletcher, and Wade and Anthony Buyse. Why not complete your accusation?"

"You are deceived with your master, rather than deceivers," Crosby answered. "You are prepared to fight for the cause, therefore you stand apart. You know that what I say is true, my lord." And he turned to Monmouth again.

"Finish what you have to say, Crosby."

"Your enterprise is doomed to failure. Here in Somersetshire you are loved, and a few thousand men, confident that the whole country will acclaim you, are prepared to lay down their lives for you. The country is not going to open its arms to you. You can no longer be deceived upon that point. The train-bands of Wiltshire are mustering, the militia of Sussex and Oxfordshire are on the road. The Duke of Beaufort supports the crown, and the undergraduates of Oxford take up arms to oppose you. Feversham and Churchill march with the regular troops against you, and your army of yokels must go down like a field of corn before the reapers."

"I take it that, had there been no doubt of our success, we should have had the pleasure of your company," said Ferguson.

"No, you would not. I do not favour the rebellion you are raising, and I come on a self-imposed embassy to plead with my Lord Monmouth, first because of my friendship for him, secondly to urge that he will not fashion a scourge for the back of this simple West-Country folk."

Monmouth's face had grown gloomy. He was too good a soldier not to know that what Crosby said was true, that his chance of success was of the feeblest kind. Not a single man of real importance had joined him; already there was regret that he had left his retreat in Brabant to lead such a desperate venture, and deep down in his heart, perhaps, he recognised in Ferguson his evil genius.

"You are a veritable Job's comforter," he said with a forced smile. "You show us a crowd of difficulties, have you any advice how they may be overcome?"

"Bid these men with their scythes and reaping-hooks disperse, and then leave England as quietly as you came."

Such a solution had entered into Monmouth's mind already. It seemed more feasible now that a friend had spoken it.

"You cannot!" exclaimed Lord Grey. "That would be base ingratitude to the men who are encamped without these walls. We have called them to arms, we must stand or fall with them."

"I grant it sounds the more honest advice," said Crosby, "but, my lord, you have to choose between two evils; I only counsel you to take the lesser. A few will suffer, doubtless, if you abandon your enterprise, but if you press on with it the whole of the West Country will be persecuted. King James does not know how to forgive."

"It is too late to turn back," said Monmouth. "Grey is right. These men look to me to lead them to victory. I will make the attempt. I have sworn it on the Holy Book."

Crosby bowed his head and was silent. He could not deny that Monmouth's attitude was that of an honest man.

"And what becomes of this gentleman who is so ready to help our enemies by giving us advice?" asked Ferguson.

"To-night he sups with us, to-morrow he departs," Monmouth answered.

"Is that wise? He has seen us in our stronghold, he has counted our numbers, he has knowledge of our weakness. He would be safer shut in this castle, safer still were he turned loose to the mercies of those men who are encamped yonder. I would make short work of all spies."

"The gentleman is honest, but gives bad advice," said Grey.

"I'm thinking we shall find him in the ranks of our enemies on the day of battle," Ferguson retorted.

"Even so, he departs in peace to-morrow," said Monmouth.

"I fight neither for you nor against you," Crosby answered. "Presently I may try to do something to help these peasants in their need, which will surely come. If in your hour of need, my Lord Monmouth, you should think there is safety at Lenfield Manor, I will do my best to find you a hiding-place there."

"If I enter Lenfield Manor I trust it will not be as a fugitive from my enemies," said Monmouth. "Now, gentlemen, to supper."

Gilbert Crosby had hardly expected anything else but failure, yet he was disappointed. Had he seen Monmouth privately he might have been able to persuade him better. Some honesty there might be in Monmouth's use of the Protestant faith to further his cause, but it was probably of very secondary consideration, while with those about him, and who were responsible for his actions, it was merely a tool to be used so long as it proved useful. With the peasantry who had flocked to the blue standard it was everything, and it was chiefly on their account that Crosby had journeyed to Bridgwater. He would have saved Monmouth if he could, but after all, Monmouth aspired to a throne and must take the risks; the people, on the other hand, had nothing to win and everything to lose, and, although Crosby would not take up arms with them, he was quite ready to sacrifice himself on their behalf. He was of that stock which had bred the Pyms and Hampdens of the Civil War. At the Restoration his father had retired to his Manor of Lenfield and had mixed no more in politics. Possibly the Restoration was for the general good of the country rather than the rule of that rabid section of the Puritans which had caricatured the original spirit in which an appeal to arms had been made, but Thomas Crosby remained a Puritan, and distrusted the Stuarts as much as he had ever done. In this atmosphere Gilbert Crosby had grown to manhood, and since his father's death five years ago had been master of Lenfield. If he were less of a Puritan than his father, he was just as opposed to all forms of popery, and had been quite sensible of the danger which must arise on the accession of James. He had been active amongst those who were firmly determined to struggle against the re-establishment of Roman Catholicism in England, but he had lent himself to no underhand plots against the King, and, although conscious that there existed an undercurrent of intrigue in favour of the Duke of Monmouth, neither he nor those with whom he was associated had expected Monmouth's landing. It was natural, perhaps, that men like Wildman and Danvers should believe that such an invasion would force the hands of all those who clung to the Protestant faith, but the body to which Crosby belonged looked to the Prince of Orange as leader should open rebellion become necessary; they might be at one with the West-Country peasantry in religion, but they were not likely to help the son of Lucy Walters to his father's throne. Gilbert Crosby was prepared to be his friend, but he was not prepared to be his subject.

He had retired to his room and locked the door. He was to start early in the morning, and had taken leave of Monmouth, who had striven to appear in high spirits during supper. His forced gaiety had not deceived Crosby, whose heart was heavy as he paced the room thoughtfully for a time. Disaster was in the air, and Monmouth was but the shuttlecock of unscrupulous men.

"I wish I could help him," he sighed, and then he drew from his neck a white ribbon. The ends were knotted together so that he could suspend it round his neck under his clothing, and it had rested there day and night ever since he had picked it up. He folded it in his hands and kissed it; so he had done every night, and there had come to him a vision—a hurrying crowd of men and women, careless of everything but pleasure and excitement, and a young girl shrinking back against the wall, strangely out of place there, and alone.

"I wonder whether we shall ever meet again, and, if we do, whether I shall have the courage to show you the ribbon you dropped," he murmured.

He had slipped the ribbon round his neck again when there was a hasty knock at the door, and when he opened it Lord Grey entered the room quietly.

"I am glad to see you have not retired, Mr. Crosby. King Monmouth is afraid for you. Ferguson, a good man but a fanatic, is set upon detaining you at Bridgwater—has, perhaps, more sinister designs. He plots on his own account in this matter to take you in the morning, so you must needs leave to-night."

"I would rather stay and settle the score with Ferguson," said Crosby.

"One man, while Ferguson has a dozen enthusiasts at his back! It is impossible. Besides, Monmouth commands, and, in Bridgwater at least, his word is law."

"I will go," Crosby answered.

Grey led the way down numerous small passages and short flights of narrow steps until a small door was reached.

"Your horse is here, but I will walk with you through the town. We can understand men coming in, we do not understand men going out."

"I have already said I should prefer to stay and face Ferguson in the morning," Crosby returned.

Grey laughed.

"His rage will be wonderful to behold, but you must not be there to see it. He will fling texts of damnation after you, which, had they power to kill, would certainly prevent you reaching the end of your journey. His knowledge of such passages in the Bible is wonderful."

They passed through the town quietly. It was sleeping.

"Farewell, Mr. Crosby. I wish you could have remained with us."

"And I wish that you had never been persuaded to try so mad a venture," said Crosby.

"The issue lies still in the balance," Grey returned.

So Gilbert Crosby rode away from Bridgwater, and the mist was thick over
Sedgemoor.