Monmouth, surrounded by every circumstance that could make life
delightful, watched with some intentness the scene in the quadrangle
beneath.

'I would give his fame,' said Lord Monmouth, 'if I had it, and my wealth,
to be sixteen.'

Five hundred of the youth of England, sparkling with health, high spirits,
and fancy dresses, were now assembled in the quadrangle. They formed into
rank, and headed by a band of the Guards, thrice they marched round the
court. Then quitting the College, they commenced their progress 'ad
Montem.' It was a brilliant spectacle to see them defiling through the
playing fields, those bowery meads; the river sparkling in the sun, the
castled heights of Windsor, their glorious landscape; behind them, the
pinnacles of their College.

The road from Eton to Salt Hill was clogged with carriages; the broad
fields as far as eye could range were covered with human beings. Amid the
burst of martial music and the shouts of the multitude, the band of
heroes, as if they were marching from Athens, or Thebes, or Sparta, to
some heroic deed, encircled the mount; the ensign reaches its summit, and
then, amid a deafening cry of 'Floreat Etona!' he unfurls, and thrice
waves the consecrated standard.

'Lord Monmouth,' said Mr. Rigby to Coningsby, 'wishes that you should beg
your friends to dine with him. Of course you will ask Lord Henry and your
friend Sir Charles Buckhurst; and is there any one else that you would
like to invite?'

'Why, there is Vere,' said Coningsby, hesitating, 'and--'