Great Harangue by King at Southam (miserable village, recently plundered ?how many days ago? by Parliament; the fat wife wailing over the loss of Hens, demanding redress, ignored/mocked by King & co) – King’s speech, a monument of aggrieved self-pity, as a Robber, captured, will shout: Who accuseth me? I d-d-d-did not, Charles says, alter the t-t-t-true Protestant religion, the laws of England, the l-l-l-l-liberties of the subject, &c. Nor am I employing f-f-f-foreigners in my Army (which must come as a Shock to Rupert), or P-p-p-p-papists (a shock to the Papists here). And as w-w-w-we are the v-v-v-victim of vile c-c-c-ccalumnies and aspersions uttered by those discontented p-p-p-people whose lives are but a c-c-c-continual rumor and f-f-f-faction (here Rupert nudges me, saying, He to you refers, young Firth, and your Newsbook; the King glares Rupert silent, and continues): D-d-d-do not defraud any man, abuse not their wives, nor their s-s-s-servants, not their c-c-c-cattle (mutter behind me: nor their wives servants, nor their servants wives, nor their servants wives cattle, Rupert barks them to silence), do not plunder or p-p-p-p-pillage, avoid vain and rash swearing, excessive d-d-d-d-rinking, and e-e-e-ffiminacy, honor the true religion, et cetera and so on etc etc etc, until I am veritably blue in the face with the vain lying hypocrisy of this man, until finally he’s done with a l-l-l-et us speedily bring these weary l-l-l-labors to a good c-c-c-conclusion and the k-k-k-kingdom shall c-c-c-continue in p-p-p-peace forever.

I retrieve my Belabored brain, from the Mud into which the King has Bludgeoned it with his oily dishonesty. The debate resumes on the Dutch vs the Swedish method of battle array. Rupert is clearly winning the argument. Earl Lindsay takes his leave with a dignified Bow, muttering that his is no general, and is resolved, on the day of battle, that he will stand at the head of his Regiment as a private Colonel, and there I shall die.

Rupert grabs me. Firth, he says, I a mind Have to spy out the ways of the Schismatics and Rebels, by disguising myself as seller of Apples. Laughter seizes in my throat when he tells me that he is serious, very serious, “more serious in my Life I not been have am.” He says I will come, as I speak English “as the schismatics do” and “perhaps then you will a Funny story have, to write in your Newsbook, the Prince Rupert as a Yokel clad,” and he then led me Away to help him effect this disguise.

The traitor is Sir Faithful (yes) Foskue or Fortescue; raised a troop in Ireland to fight the Papists; is distressed to find himself with the Parliament fighting the lawful king; he and his men among the Horse, under Sir James Ramsay.