"Aye, plenty. Old Dare was slain last night by Fletcher of Saltoun. A pretty brawl, 'tis said, about a horse. And Fletcher hath been sent a prisoner to the ship. Thus lose we two good men at once. A grievous loss, indeed."
"Yes, true. I heard of it," said I. "And hath aught else been forward?"
"Yes. Three of our men have been slain on the shore nigh Charmouth."
Again this was no news to me; yet I contrived to say, surprisedly:
"Ah, so! By whom?"
"I know not," answered Coram; "there is some mystery about the matter, but they were slain by sword, and that by one who knew his business well, according to report."
"Well, well," I murmured, "such is war. But, say, how went it with the fight at Bridport?"
"Ill enough for us. Our men were beaten back by the militia. They fled like frightened sheep, and 'tis whispered that my Lord Grey was the worst of all; 'tis said he ne'er drew rein till safe in Lyme again.
"Now, by my life, that was a bad beginning, sure enough!"
"Aye, verily, yet scarce a thing to marvel at, for, look you, how can untrained ploughboys and the like expect to stand an onslaught e'en though it be but that of rough militiamen?"