'My grandfather commanded a regiment on that occasion,' said Gabion, 'and opened the ball by attacking this part--the Lunette St. Laurent, which lies nearest to the town. The trenches were nine English miles long, and sixty-three thousand shot and shell were fired into the place before Chassé hauled down his colours. _Sapristi!_ but that was something like fighting! _Diable!_' he added, 'we are not first on the ground.' Bevil Goring was much mortified to think that in that matter he had been anticipated by Lord Cadbury, when some dark figures appeared hurrying towards them along the _terre pleine_ of the ramparts; but it was not so, for those who approached proved to be brother-officers of Gabion's, who, having been informed by him of the affair, had come forth, as one said, to see 'le sport.' All touched their caps, and, after a few passing remarks, looked round for the appearance of Cadbury and his second, but no one, save themselves, seemed to be in the misty space, or amid the wet grassy works of the citadel, and no voiture from the town was as yet seen approaching the entrance to it. All these Belgian officers, to Goring's eye, seemed very square-shouldered, as they wore blue cloaks over their gold epaulettes. All were chatting and laughing merrily, while smoking as if their lives depended upon it. '_Sapristi! Sacré Dieu!_' muttered Victor Gabion, looking at his watch, 'ten minutes past eight, and no appearance of milord.' Time passed on. The cathedral clock struck half-past eight, and eventually nine; but there was no appearance of Cadbury. 'Can he have fallen ill?' was the last of many surmises as to this most unexpected turn in the matter. 'Not likely; he would surely have had the courtesy to send a message, and not keep us loitering here,' said Captain Gabion. The Belgians twirled their moustaches, and exchanged glances of derision. Bevil Goring felt keen shame that any Englishman should act as Cadbury had done, and at last they all left the citadel and drove back to the city. '_Sapristi!_' was of course muttered by everyone; 'what is to be done now?' Goring thought, if he could meet his lordship, he would certainly attack him rearward with his foot, and, as Hudibras has it: 'Because a kick in that place more Hurts honour than deep wounds before.' At the very time that Goring and his companions were cooling their heels on the Lunette St. Laurent, the _Firefly_ was steering close-hauled against a head wind, mid-way between the city and Flushing, with Lord Cadbury on board! Since coming there he had imbibed in his wrath and tribulation of spirit so many of Pemmican's brandies and sodas that Tom Llanyard was puzzled what to think, and his temper was horrible.