was indeed a heavy one. It was true that the direct loss to the
crown and the direct gain to the invaders hardly amounted to two hundred
men and as many horses. But where could the King henceforth expect to
find those sentiments in which consists the strength of states and of
armies? Cornbury was the heir of a house conspicuous for its attachment
to monarchy. His father Clarendon, his uncle Rochester, were men whose
loyalty was supposed to be proof to all temptation. What must be the
strength of that feeling against which the most deeply rooted hereditary
prejudices were of no avail, of that feeling which could reconcile a
young officer of high birth to desertion, aggravated by breach of trust
and by gross falsehood? That Cornbury was not a man of brilliant parts
or enterprising temper made the event more alarming. It was impossible
to doubt that he had in some quarter a powerful and artful prompter.
Who that prompter was soon became evident. In the meantime no man in the
royal camp could feel assured that he was not surrounded by traitors.
Political rank, military rank, the honour of a nobleman, the honour of a
soldier, the strongest professions, the purest Cavalier blood, could no
longer afford security. Every man might reasonably doubt whether every
order which he received from his superior was not meant to serve the
purposes of the enemy. That prompt obedience without which an army is
merely a rabble was necessarily at an end. What discipline could there
be among soldiers who had just been saved from a snare by refusing to
follow their commanding officer on a secret expedition, and by insisting
on a sight of his orders?

Cornbury was soon kept in countenance by a crowd of deserters superior
to him in rank and capacity: but during a few days he stood alone in
his shame, and was bitterly reviled by many who afterwards imitated his
example and envied his dishonourable precedence. Among these was his
own father. The first outbreak of Clarendon's rage and sorrow was highly
pathetic. "Oh God!" he ejaculated, "that a son of mine should be a
rebel!" A fortnight later he made up his mind to be a rebel himself. Yet
it would be unjust to pronounce him a mere hypocrite. In revolutions men
live fast: the experience of years is crowded into hours: old habits of
thought and action are violently broken; novelties, which at first sight
inspire dread and disgust, become in a few days familiar, endurable,
attractive. Many men of far pu