"A rabble," said Rosmore.
"A rabble that will not run counts for much, my lord, and Monmouth is no mean general as those who fought at Bothwell Bridge know well."
"You talk as though you were a messenger from Monmouth himself," said
Rosmore. "Were you a witness of the landing?"
"No, no; my fiddle and I have been to a wedding—besides, I am far too changeable a fellow to take sides," said Martin. "Were I for Monmouth to-night, I might wake to-morrow morning and find myself for King James. I shall make a song of victory so worded that it will serve for either side. Were I Monmouth's messenger I should have made certain of my company before telling my news. You may all be for the King; that would be to send you marching against Monmouth. He does not want such a messenger as I am. Do you march early to-morrow, Sir John?"
"Not so soon as that, I think, Martin."
"And you, Lord Rosmore?"
"Is it worth while marching at all against such a rabble?" was the answer.
Martin took up his fiddle.
"You, Sir Philip, will hardly leave the ladies, I suppose? Like me, you are no fighting man."
Sir Philip Branksome chose to consider himself a very great fighting man, and every acquaintance he had knew it. His angry retort was drowned in the laughter which assailed him on all sides, and by the time the laughter had ended Martin Fairley had left the room.