A spout of blood seemed to darken the sky, and deluge all. The wain brought up with a dreadful jerk.

"Home, sir, if you can!" shouted Piper from his loop-hole. "Here's the Grannydears!"

"Kit!" bawled the Parson. "Where are you?"

The lad crept out from under the wain.

"Got the lynch-pins?"

"Yes."

"Then come on!"

Under the fore-wheel the Gentleman was lying on his back, with closed eyes.

The boy stopped.

"Are you hurt, sir?"

The other shook a smiling head.

"Only shocked. Jerked off my box. Run, Little Chap, run!--or they'll bottle you."

"Kit, d.a.m.n you!" stormed the Parson. "_Will_ you run?"

Across the greensward half a dozen Grenadiers were hurling. The nearest dropped on his knee, and took deliberate aim at the boy.

The loop-hole clouded suddenly.

Out of it Death spoke.

The Grenadier toppled over on to his back with flapping hands. A moment he sat bolt-erect, a foolish-familiar look on his face--Kit somehow expected him to put his tongue out--then collapsed ghastly.

The boy made for the cottage.

Blob, leaning out of the dormer, chewing an apple, watched him with spiteful amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Say, Maaster Sir," he cried, as he spat and s...o...b..red, "reck'n they'll catch you."

"Shall I unbolt the door, sir?" shouted Piper.

"You do, by G.o.d!" roared the wrathful Parson. "They're on our heels, fool!"

"How'll you manage then, sir?"

"Leave that to me, and stick to your shooting!"

A great water-b.u.t.t stood at the corner, empty now.

The Parson, man of myriad resource, had trundled it beneath the dormer, and turned it upside down in a second.

"Up, boy!"

Kit was on it, and in through the window in a twinkle. The Parson followed.

The leading Grenadier came at him, bayonet at the charge. The Parson put the steel aside with his blade, and met the man fair in the face with his heel.

"Good punch!" he cried cheerily, and kicking the b.u.t.t away from under him, scrambled into the loft.

He stood awhile both hands on his knees, heaving. Then he looked up, his blue eyes good and grinning.

"Prettiest thing I ever saw in my life!" he panted. "But, you young scaramouch! what the deuce d'you mean by stopping to chatter to that chap?"

"I thought he was hurt," gasped the boy panting against the wall.

"He's my friend."

CHAPTER LIX

MISS BLOSSOM

"Pistol, please."

The Gentleman was standing beneath the dormer, one hand uplifted.

The Parson looked down at him.

"Well, you're a calm chap," he said with slow delight.

Better than anything in the world he loved a brave man.

"I know my man," replied the other in the same still voice.

He was far away in April twilight-land.

The fine face, gay as the morning a few minutes since, had now a wistful evening look. The shadows had fallen on it: rain was not far.

Even the Parson, blind-eyed Englishman that he was, noticed it, and was touched. After all the man was a boy, and a beaten boy.

"Are you hurt?" he gruffed.

"No--not hurt."

The Parson thought he understood.