Kit's eye was at a crack.

The Parson had broken away from the rout, and was making for the hills, the despatch-bag flopping in his back.

The Gentleman, leading the charge at the cottage, turned.

"_Abattez moi eel homme la!_" he sang.

A Grenadier dropped to his knee.

Outside the door a musket cracked.

The Grenadier leapt to his feet, whirled round with floating tails, bowed to his executioner in absurdest doll-fashion, and subsided languidly into death.

The Parson was away, the Gentleman after him with sleuth-hound strides.

The bunch of Grenadiers stormed on for the cottage.

Kit shot the bolts.

He was banging the door of life on that maimed old man, and he would as soon have slammed the gate of heaven in his mother's face.

"Good-bye, _dear_ old Piper!" he whispered.

"Good-bye, sir," cheerily. "And if I might make so bold my sarvice to Lard Nelson--Ralph Piper, old _Agamemnon_."

There was silence: then the patter of feet and deep breathing of men racing to kill.

Kit could see the back of the old man's head on a level with his eye, and just beyond, growing hugely on his gaze, the face of the leading Grenadier, livid beneath his bearskin.

Kit shut his eyes as he rammed the last bolt home. Close to his ear, he heard a voice, low as the sea and as deep. It was humming

Soldiers of Christ arise.

That too ceased.

Old Faithful was spitting on his hands.

CHAPTER LXXI

ON THE SHINGLE-BANK

A crash and grunt covered the noise of the front door opening.

Kit peeped out. The way was clear.

"Now, Blob! for your life."

Out the boys sped.

How still it was on this side after the other!

There was a fury of fighting in the distance and a dreadful smothered worry against the back door; here a tranquil sward, trees bowing, and the shingle-bank a roan breast-work against a background of silver.

"Run quietly, boy! On your toes like me. You run like a walrus."

"Tidn't me," gasped Blob. "It's ma legs. They keep on a-creakin."

Swiftly they fled across the gra.s.s.

Was there anybody at the lugger?--were they free?

The boy was sick with hope.

Behind him he could hear far yells and the occasional clash of steel.

Kit guessed what had happened. The Parson, wary old man of war, his ruse successful, the enemy drawn off, had flung back into the fight.

So far his plan had worked to a miracle.

The boy recalled Piper's last words.

His sarvice to Lard Nelson!

Piper never doubted then. Piper had been sure.

And Piper was right. The Lord was on their side. He felt it, and his spirit began to sing.

Then the song died, and his soul with it.

He could hear voices behind the shingle-bank. A double-sentry at the least had been left over the lugger.

Well, they must go through with it now.

"Knife ready?" he croaked.

"Ye'."

The gra.s.s was growing spa.r.s.e about them. He began to hear his feet. So did the men beyond the bank. There was the click of a c.o.c.king musket.

The fellow was ready: the fellow would pot them at twenty yards as they came over the crest.

Thought was lost in lightning action.

"Hola, l'ami!" he yelled.

"_Qui vive?_" came the unseen voice.