n his vindictiveness, to the
end that Richard might pay the price of having played him false and Ruth
the price of having scorned him.

Feversham meanwhile was seeking--with no great success--to engage
Mr. Wilding in talk of Monmouth, against whom Feversham harboured in
addition to his political enmity a very deadly personal hatred; for
Feversham had been a suitor to the hand of the Lady Henrietta Wentworth,
the woman for whom Monmouth--worthy son of his father--had practically
abandoned his own wife; the woman with whom he had run off, to the great
scandal of court and nation.

Despairing of drawing any useful information from Wilding, his lordship
was on the point of turning to Blake, when quick steps and the rattle of
a scabbard sounded without; the door was thrust open without ceremony,
and Captain Wentworth reappeared.

"My lord," he cried, his manner excited beyond aught one could have
believed possible in so phlegmatic-seeming a person, "it is true. We are
beset."

"Beset!" echoed Feversham. "Beset already?"

"We can hear them moving on the moor. They are crossing the Langmoor
Rhine. They will be upon us in ten minutes at the most. I have roused
Colonel Douglas, and Dunbarton's regiment is ready for them."

Feversham exploded. "What else 'ave you done?" he asked. "Where is
Milor' Churchill?"

"Lord Churchill is mustering his men as quietly as may be that they may
be ready to surprise those who come to surprise us. By Heaven, sir, we
owe a great debt to Mr. Westmacott. Without his information we might
have had all our throats cut whilst we slept."

"Be so kind to call Belmont," said Feversham. "Tell him to bring my
clot'es."

Wentworth turned and went out again to execute the General's orders.
Feversham spoke to Richard. "We are oblige', Mr. Westercott," said he.
"We are ver' much oblige'."

Suddenly from a little distance came the roll of drums. Other sounds
began to stir in the night outside to tell of a waking army.

Feversham stood listening. "It is Dunbarton's," he murmured. Then, with
some show of heat, "Ah, pardieu!" he cried. "But it was a dirty t'ing
t'is Monmoot' 'ave prepare'. It is murder; it is not t'e war.

"And yet," said Wilding critically, "it is a little more like war than
the Bridgwater affair to which your lordship gave your sanction."

Feversham pursed his lips and considered the speaker. Wentworth
reentered, followed by the Earl's valet carrying an armful of garments.
His lor