"But you can't take two fellows out to shoot at each other without having a surgeon at hand," debated Brown major, opening his eyes in his simple manner. "Don't you see it, Shrewsbury? Suppose they got wounded. While you were running to find a doctor, one of 'em might bleed to death." "Both might, for the matter of that," acknowledged Lord Shrewsbury, tilting himself against the tall secretaire, taller even than himself. "Brown's right, Onions. It's odd we never thought of it." Onions turned to the window, open to the unsavoury harbour, and stood there in silence. He did not see his way clear on this new point. Not a single doctor in the town was known to him; every one of them might prove a traitor. And, moreover, he had some private doubts of his French, did it come to a delicate negotiation. "Look here," exclaimed Brown major, briskly, a happy thought striking him; "would not my brother Bob do to go out with you? He is at St. George's Hospital, you know, takes his turn to go round with the surgeons as a dresser. He has his case of instruments over here, and I know he'd be true." The suggestion was seized upon, and Brown major flew off and brought back his brother. Mr. Robert Brown—a young man of twenty, with a fresh, good-natured, round face—affirmed that he could bind up wounds and restore fainting patients to life with the most skilled hand at St. George's; ay, and extract a bullet, if it came to that. He gave his promise to keep the secret, and seemed to look forward to the affair as a piece of delightful fun, rather than one of solemnity and danger. This settled, Leek and Talbot went down on the port, deeming it well to show themselves to their friends, lest suspicion should be excited. When we have a momentous secret on hand, you know, we are apt to fear the world may miraculously discover it. Gall and Loftus were both there, on the plage, before the établissement. Indeed it seemed that half the town had gathered on the port, here and in various other parts, to watch the turbulent sea. None could have discerned anything unusual in the demeanour of the two young men, soon to be the combatants in a great tragedy. Both were a little silent, but that was all. The wind had been rising higher and higher since the previous day. These London inland people called it a hurricane, and gazed on the sea with an interest that partook of awe. It was indeed very rough—sailors might have said half a gale; but the boat from Folkestone had ventured out, and, after a long and difficult passage, was trying to make the harbour. On the pier, people unused to this could not stand without difficulty, and chose rather the safer watching parts on the plage. Some of the boys were gathered on the sands, near to that little yellow house, the Maison de Sauvetage—rather an ominous name to-day.