“What fighting do you suggest there would be?” asked the Duke.
“There is Albemarle between us and Exeter.”
“But with the militia,” Wilding reminded him; “and if the militia deserts him for Your Grace, in what case will Albemarle find himself?”
“And if the militia does not desert? If you should be proven wrong, sir? What then? What then?” asked Grey.
“Aye—true—what then, Mr. Wilding?” quoth the Duke, already wavering.
Wilding considered a moment, all eyes upon him. “Even then,” said he presently, “I do maintain that in this dash for Exeter lies Your Grace's greatest chance of success. We can deliver battle if need be. Already we are three thousand strong...”
Grey interrupted him rudely. “Nay,” he insisted. “You must not presume upon that. We are not yet fit to fight. It is His Grace's business at present to drill and discipline his troops and induce more friends to join him.”
“Already we are turning men away because we have no weapons to put into their hands,” Wilding reminded them, and a murmur of approval ran round, which but served to anger Grey the more, to render more obstinate his opposition.
“But all that come in are not unprovided,” was his lordship's retort. “There are the Hampshire gentry and their friends. They will come armed, and so will others if we have patience.
“Aye,” said Wilding, “and if you have patience enough there will be troops the Parliament will send against us. They, too, will be armed, I can assure your lordship.”