ide upon a busy day are not more crowded
than were the narrow streets and lanes of the Somersetshire town.
Jack-booted, buff-coated troopers; scarlet militiamen; brown,
stern-faced Tauntonians; serge-clad pikemen; wild, ragged miners;
smockfrocked yokels; reckless, weather-tanned seamen; gaunt cragsmen
from the northern coast--all pushed and jostled each other in a thick,
many-coloured crowd. Everywhere among them were the country women,
straw-bonneted and loud-tongued, weeping, embracing, and exhorting.
Here and there amid the motley dresses and gleam of arms moved the dark,
sombre figure of a Puritan minister, with sweeping sad-coloured mantle
and penthouse hat, scattering abroad short fiery ejaculations and stern
pithy texts of the old fighting order, which warmed the men's blood like
liquor. Ever and anon a sharp, fierce shout would rise from the people,
like the yelp of a high-spirited hound which is straining at its leash
and hot to be at the throat of its enemy.

Our regiment had been taken off duty whenever it was clear that
Feversham did not mean to advance, and they were now busy upon the
victuals which our night-foray had furnished. It was a Sunday, fresh and
warm, with a clear, unclouded sky, and a gentle breeze, sweet with the
smack of the country. All day the bells of the neighbouring villages
rang out their alarm, pealing their music over the sunlit countryside.
The upper windows and red-tiled roofs of the houses were crowded with
pale-faced women and children, who peered out to eastward, where the
splotches of crimson upon the dun-coloured moor marked the position of
our enemies.

At four o'clock Monmouth held a last council of war upon the square
tower out of which springs the steeple of Bridgewater parish church,
whence a good view can be obtained of all the country round. Since my
ride to Beaufort I had always been honoured with a summons to attend, in
spite of my humble rank in the army. There were some thirty councillors
in all, as many as the space would hold, soldiers and courtiers,
Cavaliers and Puritans, all drawn together now by the bond of a common
danger. Indeed, the near approach of a crisis in their fortunes had
broken down much of the distinction of manner which had served to
separate them. The sectary had lost something of his austerity and
become flushed and eager at the prospect of battle, while the giddy man
of fashion was hushed into unwonted gravity as he considered the danger
of h