“Men will flock to you, no doubt; persecution has wearied many of the country-folk, and they are ready for revolt. But they are all untrained in arms; they are rustics, not soldiers. If any of the men of position were to rally round your standard they would bring the militia, and others in their train; they would bring arms, horses, and money, all of which Your Grace must be sorely needing.”
“They will come,” answered the Duke.
“Some, no doubt,” Wilding agreed; “but had it been next year, I would have answered for it that it would have been no handful had ridden in to welcome you. Scarce a gentleman of Devon or Somerset, of Dorset or Hampshire, of Wiltshire or Cheshire but would have hastened to your side.”
“They will come as it is,” the Duke repeated with an almost womanish insistence, persisting in believing what he hoped, all evidence apart.
The door opened and Ensign Cragg made his appearance. “May it please Your Grace,” he announced, “Mr. Battiscomb has just arrived, and asks will Your Grace receive him to-night?”
“Battiscomb!” cried the Duke. Again his cheek flushed and his eye sparkled. “Aye, in Heaven's name, show him up.”
“And may the Lord refresh us with good tidings!” prayed Ferguson devoutly.
Monmouth turned to Wilding. “It is the agent I sent ahead of me from Holland to stir up the gentry from here to the Mersey.”
“I know,” said Wilding; “we conferred together some weeks since.”
“Now you shall see how idle are your fears,” the Duke promised him.