On he stumbled, sometimes treading the dust of a road, but mostly they seemed to be climbing or descending some grassy slope. Mr. Potter went by ways known only to himself; he led them through narrow lanes deep-sunk in the chalk, through black alleys roofed by tangled thickets and dense-growing bushes, leafy tunnels sweet with honeysuckle; up and up and down steep, thymey slopes, across lush meadows where the feet sank deep, past brooks that gurgled sleepily in the dark; on and ever on, reeling and sweating through a windless darkness, until, breasting a slope, there met them a sweet, cool breath and to their ears came the hoarse murmur of the sea. Then Mr. Potter halted, and when he spoke it was in a whisper: “Yonder lays Cuckmere, sirs ... tide’ll be at flood in ’arf an hour, I rackon, an’ the _True Believer_ should be a-layin’ hove-to out yonder. Afore Sharkie stands in he’ll show two lights—white above red, which means, ‘Is arl clear?’ Then, if there be spies yonder they’ll swing a lanthorn from the cliff, which means, ‘Arl clear.’ So bide ye here, sirs, an’ watch fur Sharkie’s signal whiles I tak’ a look round. But dappen ye see Potter’s wepping flash, why, then—run for your lives ... an’ softly it be!” So saying Mr. Potter dropped upon hands and knees, crawled away and vanished. Sir John, panting upon the grass, could make out the loom of precipitous cliff, the vague line of shore, the white foam of incoming tide; upon his right hand crouched Mr. Pym, the barrel of his musket cutting across the stars, upon his left knelt Sir Hector, bulking more gigantic than nature in the dimness; and then he was startled by Mr. Potter’s voice immediately behind him: “Back, sirs, back an’ easy it is, for y’r lives!... They sojers be right afore us—thick as mushrooms ... aye, thick as ’rooms they be, so easy it is, sirs ... we must to the beach ... foller Potter, sirs ... an’ tread cautious!” Gliding like phantoms, they followed whither Mr. Potter led, while ever the beat of the incoming waves grew louder. Suddenly beneath Sir John’s foot a piece of rotten driftwood snapped, seeming to him loud as a pistol-shot, and he stood, breath in check, half expecting a hoarse challenge and the roaring flash of musketry; instead, he heard Mr. Potter’s whisper: “Lay down, sirs ... easy! Now watch the sea yonder!” To Sir John, thus outstretched, hearing only the throb of his own heart and remembering all those men who lay so murderously silent, so patiently watchful and expectant, it seemed that looming cliff and vague foreshore were places of supreme horror, since death lurked there; the very night seemed foul of it. And then came Mr. Potter’s soft, untroubled whisper: “Yonder, sirs!... Yonder cometh Sharkie Nye!... D’ye see yon twinkle?... Up she swings—the white!... Now the red! Aye, yonder lays the _True Believer_ hove to an’ waitin’ the answerin’ signal.... Watch the cliff, sirs——”