"Up with the King's banner!" shouted Featherstone, and Dacre went to the mast and drew up the flag.
"God save the King!" shouted every throat, as the heavy folds went upward.
But there was a hitch in the halyards, and Dacre's excitement did not allow him to remove it quickly. The royal banner stopped on its way aloft—stopped at the half mast—and there ominously remained for a full half minute before the lines were cleared and it soared to the masthead.
On the parade-ground seven regiments of infantry had wheeled into line, and presented arms as the commander rode to the front of the brigade. When the noonday gun boomed, a thrill went through the scarlet ranks, for even the linesmen knew that a tragedy was about to be enacted. The word had been passed through the camp that the Royalist traitors would at that hour declare themselves.
Never was drama seen upon the stage in which the actors approached the tragic ending so fatuously, so deliberately.
Colonel Arundel, riding in front of the staff, halted and faced the brigade. The troops presented arms; the band played the national anthem, "God Save the People!" When the music had ceased the eyes of Colonel Arundel were turned to the flag-pole at the mess-tent. His heart leaped within him when he saw the lines shake, and then, true to the moment of time, up went the flag of the King.
"Soldiers!" shouted the old commander, baring his white head and pointing to the royal banner; "behold the flag of your King and country! King George has come to claim his own again, and he is now in personal command of this camp. God save the King!"
The whole brigade stared at the flagstaff where the big banner of King George had stopped at the half-mast like a mourning emblem. A round of suppressed laughter came from the troops—a sound that sent a shudder through the old colonel's heart, which no violent outcry could have done.
The vibration of the commander's voice was still in the air when a horseman dashed down to the head of the brigade, a man with a face of terrible power and purpose. It was Colonel Devereux. He faced the brigade like a man cast in iron, so still he sat for half a minute. He was an electric centre, reaching the eyes and nerves of every man in the brigade.
"Present—arms!" and the brigade sprang into motion beneath his thrilling voice.