"He cannot tell you, sir," the widow interposed. "It's no use to ask
him. We know nothing of these matters. This is my son--my poor,
afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. He is not in his right
senses--he is not, indeed."

"He has surely no appearance," said Lord George, whispering in his
secretary's ear, "of being deranged. We must not construe any trifling
peculiarity into madness. You desire to make one of this body?" he
added, addressing Barnaby. "And intended to make one, did you?"

"Yes, yes," said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. "To be sure, I did. I
told her so myself."

"Then follow me." replied Lord George, "and you shall have your wish."

Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly, and telling her their fortunes were
made now, did as he was desired.

They hastened on to St. George's Fields, where the vast army of men was
drawn up in sections. Doubtless there were honest zealots sprinkled here
and there, but for the most part the throng was composed of the very
scum and refuse of London.

Barnaby was acclaimed by a man in the ranks, Hugh, the rough hostler of
the Maypole, whom Barnaby in his frequent wanderings had long known.

"What! you wear the colour, do you? Fall in, Barnaby. You shall march
between me and Dennis, and you shall carry," said Hugh, taking a flag
from the hand of a tired man, "the gayest silken streamer in this
valiant army."