He wraps his grey mantle round his brocaded ball-dress and leaves the castle, saluted by the silent sentinels.
He has missed his friends.
A sudden silence succeeds the gaiety of the night.
He crosses the moat and enters the meadows; the air is unaccountably cool. He follows the raised causeway between the thick grass, crosses a bridge over a canal, and stops, amazed.
The meadow before him is flooded; spikes of grass and branches of trees rise from placid grey water.
“The river has overflowed,” thinks Monmouth—yet there has been no rain.
He follows the causeway hastily. The next field is under water, and the next under water. It seems to him it rises; as he watches a clump of alders, high enough, are nearly submerged.
The duke stops and stares about him.
The brightening sun discloses a cottage buried to the roof beneath the water.
The camp!