Meanwhile the authorities bestirred themselves. Under the command of Lord Cawdor, the Fishguard Fencibles and Castle Martin Yeomanry marched out to Goodwic Sands, where the enemy, finding the game was up, laid down their arms and surrendered _à discrétion_. Thus these doughty regiments achieved the unique distinction of facing a foreign foe on the soil of Britain itself. It is said that the goodwives of Pembrokeshire, arrayed in their red woollen 'whittles,' countermarched and deployed around a neighbouring hill, thus leading the invaders to suppose that a regiment of gallant redcoats was preparing to oppose their advance. The French prisoners were subsequently lodged in durance vile at a place near Pembroke, whence some of them effected their escape in Lord Cawdor's yacht, with the connivance of two Pembroke lasses--the old story of _cherchez la femme_ once more. One of the French vessels having been afterwards captured was re-christened the _Fisguard_, a name that has only recently disappeared from the files of the Navy List. Incredible as it may seem in these days, the news of this famous event took a whole week to travel to the Metropolis, and it is said that the anniversary of the French landing is still held in remembrance amongst the old folk in the locality. It is a pleasant stroll from Fishguard to the scene of these historic events. Our way lies past the church, where, in a corner of the graveyard, we notice a curiously-incised stone cross. The lane now winds downhill, and we soon find ourselves pacing the smooth firm expanse of Goodwic Sands, with the hamlet of that ilk clinging to a wooded hillside before us. Goodwic is picturesquely situated, overlooking a tiny haven and pier in an elbow of the rock close under the hill. Its genial climate and safe bathing shore make the place deservedly popular, and cause the handful of lodging-houses to fill up rapidly during 'the season.' Pushing on again, we now enter the district of Pencaer, and, guided by the trusty Ordnance sheet, thread our way through narrow crooked lanes, rounding the base of Carn Wnda, where the Frenchmen pitched their camp, and passing on to the little out-of-the-way village of Llanwnda. [Illustration: Llanwnda Church.] The church stands in an isolated position overlooking a piece of rough ground that does duty as village 'green,' a place scattered over with gray tumbled stones that seem to group themselves into the lines of rude hut-circles. Two or three low thatched cottages, that might pass for Irish cabins, appear to have been 'dumped' down haphazard, and look old enough to have seen Giraldus Cambrensis when he held the benefice here.