ether to support the religion of their
country, even unto death, had never heard a hymn or psalm in all their
lives. But these fellows having for the most part strong lungs, and
being naturally fond of singing, chanted any ribaldry or nonsense that
occurred to them, feeling pretty certain that it would not be detected
in the general chorus, and not caring much if it were. Many of these
voluntaries were sung under the very nose of Lord George Gordon, who,
quite unconscious of their burden, passed on with his usual stiff and
solemn deportment, very much edified and delighted by the pious conduct
of his followers.

So they went on and on, up this line, down that, round the exterior of
this circle, and on every side of that hollow square; and still there
were lines, and squares, and circles out of number to review. The day
being now intensely hot, and the sun striking down his fiercest rays
upon the field, those who carried heavy banners began to grow faint
and weary; most of the number assembled were fain to pull off their
neckcloths, and throw their coats and waistcoats open; and some, towards
the centre, quite overpowered by the excessive heat, which was of course
rendered more unendurable by the multitude around them, lay down upon
the grass, and offered all they had about them for a drink of water.
Still, no man left the ground, not even of those who were so distressed;
still Lord George, streaming from every pore, went on with Gashford; and
still Barnaby and his mother followed close behind them.

They had arrived at the top of a long line of some eight hundred men in
single file, and Lord George had turned his head to look back, when a
loud cry of recognition--in that peculiar and half-stifled tone which a
voice has, when it is raised in the open air and in the midst of a
great concourse of persons--was heard, and a man stepped with a shout
of laughter from the rank, and smote Barnaby on the shoulders with his
heavy hand.

'How now!' he cried. 'Barnaby Rudge! Why, where have you been hiding for
these hundred years?'

Barnaby had been thinking within himself that the smell of the trodden
grass brought back his old days at cricket, when he was a young boy
and played on Chigwell Green. Confused by this sudden and boisterous
address, he stared in a bewildered manner at the man, and could scarcely
say 'What! Hugh!'

'Hugh!' echoed the other; 'ay, Hugh--Maypole Hugh! You remember my dog?
He's alive now, and will know