Nevertheless, urging that his news was of importance, he begged to be instantly announced.
After a pause, he was ushered into a lofty, roomy chamber where, in the fading daylight, King Monmouth sat in council with Grey and Wade, Matthews, Speke, Ferguson, and others.

At the foot of the table stood a sturdy country-fellow, unknown to Wilding.

It was Godfrey, the spy, who was to act as their guide across Sedgemoor that night; for the matter that was engaging them just then was the completion of their plans for the attack that was to be made that very night upon Feversham's unprepared camp--a matter which had been resolved during the last few hours as an alternative preferable to the retreat towards Gloucester that had at first been intended.
Wilding was shocked at the change that had been wrought in Monmouth's appearance during the few weeks since last he had seen him.

His face was thin, pale, and haggard, his eyes were more sombre, and beneath them there were heavy, dark stains of sleeplessness and care, his very voice, when presently he spoke, seemed to have lost the musical timbre that had earlier distinguished it; it was grown harsh and rasping.

Disappointment after disappointment, set down to ill-luck, but in reality the fruit of incompetence, had served to sour him.