While the reading of this long tirade was going forward I sought some information.
"Who are those two fine-dressed men who stand on either side the Duke?" I asked of a sour-faced fellow at my elbow.
"Those are Monmouth's generals," he answered with a snivel. "He on the right is Lord Grey of Wark, of whom I cannot say much; but he on the left is Master Fletcher of Saltoun, a man well skilled in carnal warfare, a godly man to boot."
"Ah, and that round-faced minister who tries to look so solemn and yet cannot. Who is he?"
"'Tis Master Hooke, the Duke's private chaplain, a worthy man, I trow, though somewhat Popish of appearance."
Just then the reader of the declaration turned himself to get a better light, and the setting sun fell full upon his blotched, scorbutic cheek and made it look as though 'twere stained with blood.
I gazed upon him spellbound for a moment, then I asked:
"And prithee, who is he that reads?"
The voice of my informant dropped into a solemn whisper, as though 'twere something sacred that he spoke of, as he answered:
"That is Doctor Robert Ferguson, chaplain to Monmouth's army, and a terror to all workers of iniquity."