commandments of sobriety, sat cheek by jowl with rakehelly
officers of Dalzell's Brigade, and pledged the King in many a
stoup of canary and many a can of stout March ale.

On every hand spirits ran high and laughter filled the chamber,
the mirth of some having its source in a neighbour's quip, that
of others having no source at all save in the wine they had
taken.

At one table sat a gentleman of the name of Faversham, who had
ridden on the previous night in that ill-fated camisado that
should have resulted in the capture of Cromwell at Spetchley,
but which, owing to a betrayal - when was a Stuart not betrayed
and sold? - miscarried. He was relating to the group about him
the details of that disaster.

"Oddslife, gentlemen," he was exclaiming, "I tell you that, but
for that roaring dog, Sir Crispin Galliard, the whole of
Middleton's regiment had been cut to pieces. There we stood on
Red Hill, trapped as ever fish in a net, with the whole of
Lilburne's men rising out of the ground to enclose and destroy
us. A living wall of steel it was, and on every hand the call
to surrender. There was dismay in my heart, as I'll swear
there was dismay in the heart of every man of us, and I make
little doubt, gentlemen, that with but scant pressing we had
thrown down our arms, so disheartened were we by that ambush.
Then of a sudden there arose above the clatter of steel and
Puritan cries, a loud, clear, defiant shout of "Hey for
Cavaliers!"