The Bishop’s news was reassuring:  at least all was not lost; the Queen yet breathed, or was alive when they left London, six hours since. ("It was Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming,” the Doctor said.) Argyle had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more; the Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them, (I am not sure but the Bishop swore as he spoke,) and so too were our people.  And all might be saved, if only the Prince could be at London in time.  We called for horses, instantly to return to London.  We never went up poor crestfallen Boniface’s stairs, but into our coaches again.  The Prince and his Prime Minister in one, Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a companion.

Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the Prince’s friends and warn them of his coming.  We travelled through the night.  Esmond discoursing to his mistress of the events of the last twenty-four hours; of Castlewood’s ride and his; of the Prince’s generous behavior and their reconciliation.  The night seemed short enough; and the starlit hours passed away serenely in that fond company.

So we came along the road; the Bishop’s coach heading ours; and, with some delays in procuring horses, we got to Hammersmith about four o’clock on Sunday morning, the first of August, and half an hour after, it being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick’s house, and so down the street of Kensington.

Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street and many people moving to and fro.  Round the gate leading to the Palace, where the guard is, there was especially a great crowd.  And the coach ahead of us stopped, and the Bishop’s man got down to know what the concourse meant?

There presently came from out of the gate—­Horse Guards with their trumpets, and a company of heralds with their tabards.  The trumpets blew, and the herald-at-arms came forward and proclaimed George, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith.  And the people shouted God save the King!

Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught sight of one sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen under many disguises.  It was no other than poor Mr. Holt’s, who had slipped over to England to witness the triumph of the good cause; and now beheld its enemies victorious, amidst the acclamations of the English people.  The poor fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off, until his neighbors in the crowd remarked his want of loyalty, and cursed him for a Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and began to cheer.  Sure he was the most unlucky of men:  he never played a game but he lost it; or engaged in a conspiracy but ’twas certain to end in defeat.  I saw him in Flanders after this, whence he went to Rome to the head-quarters of his Order; and actually reappeared among us in America, very old, and busy, and hopeful.  I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet and moccasins there; and, attired in a blanket and war-paint, skulk about a missionary amongst the Indians.  He lies buried in our neighboring province of Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a mound of earth above him; under which that unquiet spirit is for ever at peace.