"Oh, these professionals!" ingeminated Captain Pond again, eyeing the breach and the dismantled married quarters. "A whole seven days! And for that period we are to rest exposed not only to direct attack, but to the gaze of the curious public--nay, perchance even (who knows?) to the paid spies of the Corsican! Doctor, we must post a guard here at once! Incredible that even this precaution should have been neglected! Nay,"-- with a sudden happy inspiration he clapped the Doctor on the shoulder,-- "did he say 'twould take three days to level this sorry heap?" "He did." "It shall not take us an hour! By George, sir, before daylight to-morrow we'll run up a nine-pounder, and have this rubbish down in five minutes! Yes, yes--and I'd do it to-day, if it weren't the Sabbath." "I don't see that the Sabbath ought to count against what we may fairly call the dictates of national urgency," said the Doctor. "_ Salus patriae suprema lex_." "What's that?" "Latin. It means that when the State is endangered all lesser considerations should properly go to the wall. To me your proposal seems a brilliant one; just the happy inspiration that would never occur to the hidebound professional mind in a month of Sundays. And in your place I wouldn't allow the Sabbath or anything else--" A yell interrupted him--a yell, followed by the sound of a scuffle and, after a moment's interval, by a shout of triumph. These noises came from the roofless married quarters, and the voice of triumph was Lieutenant Clogg's, who had stepped inside the building while his seniors stood conversing, and now emerged dragging a little man by the collar, while with his disengaged hand he flourished a paper excitedly. "A spy! A spy!" he panted. "Hey?" "I caught him in the act!" Mr. Clogg thrust the paper into his Captain's hands and, turning upon his captive, shook him first as one shakes a fractious child, and then planted him vigorously on his feet and demanded what he had to say for himself. The captive could achieve no more than a stutter. He was an extremely little man, dressed in the Sunday garb of a civilian--fustian breeches, moleskin waistcoat, and a frock of blue broadcloth, very shiny at the seams. His hat had fallen off in the struggle, and his eyes, timorous as a hare's, seemed to plead for mercy while he stammered for speech. "Good Lord!" cried Captain Pond, gazing at the paper. "Look, Doctor--a plan!" "A sketch plan!" "A plan of our defences!" "Damme, a plan of the whole Castle, and drawn to scale! Search him, Clogg; search the villain!" "Wha-wha-_what_," stuttered the little man, "WHAT'S the m-m-meaning of this? S-some-body shall p-pay, as sure as I--I--I--" "Pay, sir?" thundered Captain Pond as Mr. Clogg dragged forth yet another bundle of plans from the poor creature's pocket. "You have seen the last penny you'll ever draw in your vile trade." "Wha-_what_ have I--I--I DONE?"