It was a fine bright October day, and the autumnal tints of the foliage were glorious. Skirting Charleton Hill, they passed North Cheriton, and proceeded through a wide and fertile valley on the picturesque banks of the little river Cale, to Wincanton, but they did not halt at this picturesque old town, their purpose being to dine at the George, at Mere, in Wiltshire—Dick Cheverel, the landlord of that excellent hostel, being well known to Colonel Philips as a perfectly honest fellow and a Royalist. There they knew they would be well entertained and run no risk.
[CHAPTER XXII.]
HOW THEY DINED AT THE GEORGE AT MERE; AND HOW THE HOST RELATED HIS DREAM.
On arriving at Mere, they alighted at the George, which turned out quite as comfortable as it had been represented. Dick Cheverel, the host, a stout, good-humoured personage, sat at the head of the table, chatting with them very cheerfully.
The king took a place near the bottom of the table, but Juliana sat beside the host, who was very attentive to her. During a pause, Colonel Wyndham inquired of Cheverel if he had any news?
"Little that I care to relate," replied Dick. "Since the disaster at Worcester, I have heard nothing that gives me satisfaction. Fifteen hundred men have been shipped to Jersey and Guernsey to subjugate those faithful islands, but I am told that the men of Westminster are in great perplexity, for they cannot conceive what has become of the king.
"Most likely his majesty is in London and in disguise," remarked Colonel Philips.
"That is the general opinion, but it is not mine," said Dick. "Several houses, I understand, have been searched; but the searchers were not likely to find him."