“Lord Wiltshire, perhaps,” said Battiscomb, but with a lack of assurance.
“A plague on perhaps!” exclaimed Monmouth, growing irritable; “I want you to name the men of whom you are certain.”
Battiscomb stood silent for a moment, pondering. He looked almost foolish, like a schoolboy who hesitates to confess his ignorance of the answer to a question set him.
Fletcher swung round, his grey eyes flashing angrily, his accent more Scottish than ever.
“Is it that ye're certain o' none, Mr. Battiscomb?” he exclaimed.
“Indeed,” said Battiscomb, “I think we may be fairly certain of Mr. Legge and Mr. Hooper.”
“And of none besides?” questioned Fletcher again. “Be these the only representatives of the flower of England's nobility that is to flock to the banner of the cause of England's freedom and religion?” Scorn was stamped on every word of his question.
Battiscomb spread his hands, raised his brows, and said nothing.
“The Lord knows I do not say it exulting,” said Fletcher; “but I told Your Grace yours was hardly the case of Henry the Seventh, as my Lord Grey would have you believe.”
“We shall see,” snapped Grey, scowling at the Scot. “The people are coming in hundreds—aye, in thousands—the gentry will follow; they must.”