News came, too, that the Dorset militia were at Bridport, eight miles away, whereupon Wilding and Fletcher postponed all further suggestion of the dash for Exeter, proposing that in the mean time a night attack upon Bridport might result well. For once Lord Grey was in agreement with them, and so the matter was decided. Fletcher went down to arm and mount, and all the world knows the story of the foolish, ill-fated quarrel which robbed Monmouth of two of his most valued adherents. By ill-luck the Scot's eyes lighted upon the fine horse that Dare had brought from Ford Abbey. It occurred to him that nothing could be more fitting than that the best man should sit upon the best horse, and he forthwith led the beast from the stables and was about to mount when Dare came forth to catch him in the very act. The goldsmith was a rude, peppery fellow, who did not mince his words.
“What a plague are you doing with that horse?” he cried.
Fletcher paused, one foot in the stirrup, and looked the fellow up and down. “I am mounting it,” said he, and proceeded to do as he said.
But Dare caught him by the tails of his coat and brought him back to earth.
“You are making a mistake, Mr. Fletcher,” he cried angrily. “That horse is mine.”
Fletcher, whose temper was by no means of the most peaceful, kept himself with difficulty in hand at the indignity Dare offered him.
“Yours?” quoth he.
“Aye, mine. I brought it from Ford Abbey myself.”
“For the Duke's service,” Fletcher reminded him.
“For my own, sir; for my own I would have you know.” And brushing the Scot aside, he caught the bridle, and sought to wrench it from Fletcher's hand.