The shabby room in Coleman Street, where the Fifth Monarchy men were in the habit of assembling, was crowded with men, and the first glance showed with what ominous intentions the congregation were assembled. On a rickety platform at the end of the of the room a preacher in a Geneva gown was holding forth in the most violent language of the sect, and all around the grim listeners hung on his words with immovable attention, leaning on their pikes or holding their drawn swords across their knees.  Many were old soldiers, their stained buff-coats and scarred faces telling tales of Naseby and Marston Moor, and contrasting with the prim bands and well-brushed cloaks of the citizen members of the congregation.