him to be a man nearing sixty, but he appeared strong and vigorous. He was
dressed with rich unostentation, in grey jacket and breeches, with a
lighter grey, silver-buttoned waistcoat, and stockings to match.

There was only one thing to be talked about in any company in Stafford
that night. What was going to happen? What of truth and substance was
there in the rumours that filled all mouths? At Master Dobson's two
currents of opinion ran violently in opposite directions. The soldiers on
my left were of course certain that the Stuart Prince and his Highland
rabble would be driven back. The towns-people opposite were equally
impressed with the fact that so far he had not been driven back but had
carried all before him.

Sir Ralph had been stoutly maintaining that the rebellion was hopeless.
"There's no getting away from it, Sir Ralph," squeaked Master Dobson,
summing up for the doubtful townsmen; "between the rebels and us this
night there's not thirty miles nor three hundred men, and you've so far
only got about two thousand men in Stafford. I'm as loyal a man as any in
England, but there's no getting away from that."

"Nobody wants to get away from it, Master Dobson," replied Sir Ralph.
"Any body of men with arms in their hands and the knack of using them, can
march much farther than the Highlanders have come, if no other body of
armed men stands in their way. The Stuart Prince's march will come to an
end just as soon as he is opposed, and we're here to oppose him."

Master Dobson was still gloomy. "What sort of men have you got? Raw
militia lads, young recruits, and newly raised dragoons form at least half
of your force in Stafford."