He was excited with hope--inspired by the readiness with which the men of Lyme and its neighbourhood had flocked to his banner--and fretted by anxiety that none of the gentry of the vicinity should yet have followed the example of the meaner folk, in answer to the messages dispatched at dawn from Seaton.

The board at which he sat was still cumbered with some glasses and platters and vestiges of his repast.

Below him on his right sat Ferguson--that prince of plotters--very busy with pen and ink, his keen face almost hidden by his great periwig; opposite were Lord Grey, of Werke, and Andrew Fletcher, of Saltoun, whilst, standing at the foot of the table barely within the circle of candlelight from the branch on the polished oak, was Nathaniel Wade, the lawyer, who had fled to Holland on account of his alleged complicity in the Rye House plot and was now returned a major in the Duke's service.

Erect and soldierly of figure, girt with a great sword and with the butt of a pistol protruding from his belt, he had little the air of a man whose methods of contention were forensic.
"You understand, then, Major Wade," His Grace was saying, his voice pleasant and musical.

"It is decided that the guns had best be got ashore forthwith and mounted." Wade bowed.