A thought came into Wogan's head; the bottle had made rounds enough, and more; next morning they were to march early.
'Sir,' he said, 'there is a new religion, and a handsome lady to preach it.' Then he repeated what his host, the cobbler, had chanted to him, 'The meeting is at night in the warehouse of Mr. Brown, the eminent grocer.'
'A handsome woman!--a new belief! By St. Andrew, I'll go,' cried Charles. 'You'll come, Nick, you and--' he looked at the faces looming through the tobacco smoke round the wine-stained table. The blue reek of pipes clouded and clung to men's faces; to the red rough beard of Lochgarry, the smart, clean-shaven Ker of Graden and Maxwell of Kirkconnell, the hardy gaze of brave Balmerino, the fated Duke of Perth. Wogan thought of the Highland belief in the shroud of mist that is seen swathing men doomed soon to die, as were so many of them. The Prince stood and stared, his pipe in his hand. 'Nick, you will come, you and Ker of Graden; he's sober! Allons!'
'Sir,' whispered Mr. Murray of Broughton, 'think of the danger! The Elector has his assassins everywhere; they are taken; your Royal Highness laughs and lets them go, and the troops murmur.'
'Danger! Will they look for me at a tub-thumping match?'
The Prince picked up a cork from the floor; he set it to the flame of a candle; he touched with it his eyebrows and upper lip; he tucked his brown hair under his wig, standing before the mirror on the chimneypiece. Then he flung a horseman's cloak over his shoulders, stooped, and limped a little in his walk.
'A miracle,' everyone called out, for scarce a man of them could have known him.
He tossed his hand in the air; 'Allons, en avant!' he cried, with a laugh; and Wogan, with Ker of Graden, did what all might have better done at Derby--followed their leader.
The night was wintry, and a cold north wind blew about the rare flickering oil lamps in the street. All three men buttoned themselves up in their cloaks. The Prince, still stooping and limping, took an arm of each of his aides-de-camp; indeed, he somewhat needed their support.
'I am like that Sultan in Monsieur Galland's Eastern tales,' he said, 'visiting my subjects incognito. Nick, you are Mesrour, the Chief of the--no, you're Giaffar. Graden is--I forget the Eastern minister's name. I am the Caliph. But what are the rabble about?'