print, do ye bear in mind that I am telling of
what I saw with these very eyes, and that I have helped to make history,
which is a higher thing than to write it.

It was, then, towards nightfall upon the twelfth day of June 1685 that
the news reached our part of the country that Monmouth had landed the
day before at Lyme, a small seaport on the boundary between Dorsetshire
and Devonshire. A great beacon blaze upon Portsdown Hill was the first
news that we had of it, and then came a rattling and a drumming
from Portsmouth, where the troops were assembled under arms. Mounted
messengers clattered through the village street with their heads low on
their horses' necks, for the great tidings must be carried to London,
that the Governor of Portsmouth might know how to act. (Note B,
Appendix.) We were standing at our doorway in the gloaming, watching
the coming and the going, and the line of beacon fires which were
lengthening away to the eastward, when a little man galloped up to the
door and pulled his panting horse up.

'Is Joseph Clarke here?' he asked.

'I am he,' said my father.

'Are these men true?' he whispered, pointing with his whip at Saxon and
myself. 'Then the trysting-place is Taunton. Pass it on to all whom ye
know. Give my horse a bait and a drink, I beg of ye, for I must get on
my way.'

My young brother Hosea looked to the tired creature, while we brought
the rider inside and drew him a stoup of beer. A wiry, sharp-faced man
he was, with a birth-mark upon his temple. His face and clothes were
caked with dust, and his limbs were so stiff from the saddle that he
could scarce put one foot before another.

'One horse hath died under me,' he said, 'and this can scarce last
another twenty miles. I must be in London by morning, for we hope that
Danvers and Wildman may be able to raise the city. Yester-evening I left
Monmouth's camp. His blue flag floats over Lyme.'

'What force hath he?' my father asked anxiously.

'He hath but brought over leaders. The force must come from you folk at
home. He has with him Lord Grey of Wark, with Wade, the German Buyse,
and eighty or a hundred more. Alas! that two who came are already lost
to us. It is an evil, evil omen.'

'What is amiss, then?'

'Dare, the goldsmith of Taunton, hath been slain by Fletcher of Saltoun
in some child's quarrel about a horse. The peasants cried out for the
blood of the Scot, and he was forced to fly aboard the ships. A sad
mishap it is,