"Get on your coat," said the Commandant, sharply, putting on his trousers. "Get on your coat and run to the bell--that is, if Treacher----" But at this moment the muffled note of a bell began to sound through the fog, vindicating Treacher's vigilance. Treacher, however, was not the ringer. The Commandant had scarcely slipped on his fatigue jacket, and begun to search in the wardrobe for his overcoat, when Treacher's voice sounded up the staircase, demanding to know if the garrison was awake. "Awake?" called back Archelaus. "Of course we be, and coming before you can sound th' alarm. Reach down the bugle, man--from the rock behind th' door, there--and sound it." Treacher sounded. He was out of breath, and the two high notes quavered broken-windedly; but the Commandant's chest swelled with something of old pride. The alarm would reach the town, and the town would know that the garrison had not been caught napping. He snatched at the candle from the candlestick in Sergeant Archelaus' hand and rammed it into the socket of a horn lantern he had unhooked from the cupboard. "Come along, men! Keep sounding, Treacher--keep sounding!" Even so he had called once--a many years ago--in the trenches under the Redan. Treacher sounded obediently, and down the hill all three staggered--past the garrison gates, with a call to Mrs. Treacher to pull for all she was worth--and still forward among the ruts and loose stones, all so familiar that relying on tread alone (as in fact they did) they could not miss their way. Below them, along the quay, and on the causeway at the head of it--voices were calling and lights moving; but the fog reduced the shouts to a twitter, as of birds, and the torches and lantern to mere glow-worm sparks. The coastguards were embarking and the Lord Proprietor, just arrived upon the scene, was running about--as Sergeant Archelaus put it afterwards, "like a paper man in a cyclone"--calling out the names of volunteers for the lifeboat. If Sergeant Archelaus ever afterwards spoke disparagingly of the Lord Proprietor's activities that night, something may be forgiven him; as something may be forgiven the Lord Proprietor--for on such occasions men blurt out what rises to their lips. The fog had found its way into Treacher's bugle before our three heroes reached the quay; but he continued to blow his best; and there, at the end of the causeway, Sir Caesar ran into them--ran straight into the Commandant, almost knocking out his breath--calling, as he ran, for someone to take bow oar in the lifeboat. "Will I do?" asked Sergeant Archelaus, coolly, as became a soldier. "You?" The Lord Proprietor thrust his torch close. "Oh, get out of my way--this is work to-night, work for men! And you"--catching sight of the Commandant--"how much do you think you are helping us with this tom-fool noise?"