profound
secret. But so far from being a secret, it was, says Clarendon, "the
common discourse of the town." There was a great appearance every
morning at Lord Holland's lodging of officers who were known to have
served the king--.

his commission showed in many hands; and no question being
more commonly asked than--when doth my Lord Holland go out?
and the answer--Such and such a day; and the hour he did
take horse, when he was accompanied by an hundred horse from
his house was publickly talked of two or three days
before.[85]

But these indiscretions were not all. The first rendezvous was to be at
Kingston-on-Thames--the charming old town full of old red brick houses,
and sunny walled gardens full of lilacs and laburnums and cedars of
Lebanon, ten miles southwest of London. Here Lord Holland stayed for two
nights and one whole day, expecting numbers to flock to his standard,
"not only of officers, but of common men who had promised and listed
themselves under several officers."[86] During his stay, some officers
and soldiers, both of foot and horse did come. But the greater number of
those who resorted to Kingston were "many persons of honor and quality,"
who came down from London for the day in their coaches to visit the
little army, and returned to town again, "to provide what was still
wanting and resolved to be with him soon again."

[Illustration: LORD FRANCIS VILLIERS.]

Is it not a pitiable story? Want of plan, of management, of forethought,
of seriousness. The whole thing arranged like a play upon the stage. The
fair ladies, and the gallant cavaliers in their curly wigs and deep
Vandyke collars, driving down on the hot summer day to visit their
friends, and laugh and talk over the great victory that without doubt
they would win--the victory that would restore the king to his throne,
and drive the Parliamentarians into the sea. And beautiful young Francis
Villiers, in the heyday of his youth and strength--his debts all paid
two days before[87]--longing for a chance to strike a blow for the king
who had been a father to him.

How the grim puritan soldiers must have laughed at such a set of
amateurs in the art of War. They were not far-off--those grave fighting
men.

The chief officer with Lord Holland's band was one Dalbeer, a Dutch
malcontent. He seems to have been as incompetent as the rest of the
little army; for he kept no watch at night round the camp.

Early on the mornin