he retired, James
exclaimed in great heat, "My Lord, this is not the first trick that you
have played me." "Sir," answered Lovelace, with undaunted spirit, "I
never played any trick to your Majesty, or to any other person. Whoever
has accused me to your Majesty of playing tricks is a liar." Lovelace
had subsequently been admitted into the confidence of those who planned
the Revolution. [517] His mansion, built by his ancestors out of the
spoils of Spanish galleons from the Indies, rose on the ruins of a house
of Our Lady in that beautiful valley through which the Thames, not yet
defiled by the precincts of a great capital, nor rising and falling with
the flow and ebb of the sea, rolls under woods of beech round the gentle
hills of Berkshire. Beneath the stately saloon, adorned by Italian
pencils, was a subterraneous vault, in which the bones of ancient monks
had sometimes been found. In this dark chamber some zealous and daring
opponents of the government had held many midnight conferences during
that anxious time when England was impatiently expecting the Protestant
wind. [518] The season for action had now arrived. Lovelace, with
seventy followers, well armed and mounted, quitted his dwelling,
and directed his course westward. He reached Gloucestershire without
difficulty. But Beaufort, who governed that county, was exerting all his
great authority and influence in support of the crown. The militia had
been called out. A strong party had been posted at Cirencester. When
Lovelace arrived there he was informed that he could not be suffered to
pass. It was necessary for him either to relinquish his undertaking
or to fight his way through. He resolved to force a passage; and his
friends and tenants stood gallantly by him. A sharp conflict took place.
The militia lost an officer and six or seven men; but at length the
followers of Lovelace were overpowered: he was made a prisoner, and sent
to Gloucester Castle. [519]

Others were more fortunate. On the day on which the skirmish took place
at Cirencester, Richard Savage, Lord Colchester, son and heir of the
Earl Rivers, and father, by a lawless amour, of that unhappy poet whose
misdeeds and misfortunes form one of the darkest portions of literary
history, came with between sixty and seventy horse to Exeter. With him
arrived the bold and turbulent Thomas Wharton. A few hours later came
Edward Russell, son of the Earl of Bedford, and brother of the virtuous
nobleman whose bl