Monmouth turns about quickly. The tents are on higher ground—but this—it is a flood.…
He hesitates, daunted and dismayed.
The water is certainly rising; now it is lapping against the causeway—soon it will cover it.
Monmouth retraces his steps, turns towards the camp. He has to cross a corner of one of the meadows; here the water is over his ankles, his light shoes are soaked, his finery wetted.
Bewilderment and terror clutch at his heart; he quickens his steps along the cobbled pathway.
The canal is one with the fields now; a swirling current hurries against the trees. Monmouth stops again; the sun sparkles on the gleam of harness; a drowned horse—a soldier’s horse is swept against a clump of willow.
Beyond—another glitter and something blue.… A man.
Monmouth bends over, pulling aside the tangled grasses and leaves.
He stares down into the dead face of a French soldier.