"We're settin on a powder-mine, sir. Is that it?"

"That's it."

"Ah, well," came the philosophic voice. "Short and sweet--bless G.o.d.

Better'n lingerin on it out."

Kit panted,

"Nelson!" and swooned.

II

When he came round the Gentleman was approaching slowly across the gra.s.s.

He bantered no more. Maiden and Devil were dead. He was man, and grey as dew.

"Captain Joy," he was saying quietly. "Let us face facts. Samson is bound. Over there," pointing to Beachy Head, "are the liers in wait.

That frigate's the _Medusa_. Nelson's aboard of her. She can't escape."

The words stung Kit to new life.

"She can't escape perhaps," he shouted. "But can't she fight?"

The other shook his head.

"Why?" persisted Kit, hot for the honour of his Service. "Why can't she fight?"

"She can't fight," said the Gentleman slowly, "because her powder's wet."

"What!" bellowed the Parson--"more traitors!"

"The Gunner is mine," replied the Gentleman briefly.

"Oh, the Navy! the Navy!" cried the Parson, rocking.

"But, I don't believe it!" screamed Kit. "Let him prove it! Let him tell us how he's worked it."

The Gentleman walked slowly up and down before the window.

"We needn't enter into that," he said, cold as death.

The Parson launched a slow laughing sneer, terrible to hear.

"What! more gentlemanliness from our Gentleman!"

The words whipped the other's face white.

He stopped in his walk, and lifted slow eyes.

"It may be that I have loved my country better than my G.o.d," he said.

A smile flashed across his face--"_But what a country to be d.a.m.ned for!_"

Slowly he came towards the cottage.

"To return to the point. Nelson is lost. No power on earth can save him now."

"I do not look to any power on earth for help," replied the Parson solemnly.

"Let us talk as men," answered the other as solemn. "You have nothing to gain by holding out, and everything to lose. All that an honourable soldier could do you have done. Is it not now the part of true courage to accept the inevitable? For the last time, will you surrender?"

The great veins started on the Parson's forehead.

"Never!" he bawled. "Do your d'dest!"

The Gentleman turned and turned again.

"The blood of those boys be on your head, Mr. Joy!"

"Let the boys answer for themselves," retorted the Parson, short and sullen.

The Gentleman paused.

"Little Chap," he called, "will you come?--France is a fair country.

You shall have Monsieur Moon-calf there for squire. Myself I will see to it that you are happy."

"I would rather be dead in England than alive in France," the boy answered pa.s.sionately. "What about you, Blob?"

"Here Oi be and here Oi boide," replied Blob doggedly, and dulled the romance of the statement by adding--"Oi aren't got ma money yet."

"Think twice, Little Chap!" called the Gentleman. "You are young. You are happy. The day is before you. The night is not yet. It is early to draw down the blinds."

The Parson had turned his back to the window.

"Ask the a.s.s for time," he whispered. "We must have time."

The boy leaned out.

"May I have ten minutes to think it over, sir?"

"Two, my boy."

"Oh, sir!" pitiful, appealing.

The Gentleman glanced across his shoulder, and turned again.

"Ah, well! five be it."