In the turret Sam was pulling the bell-rope with short, quick jerks. His brain was in a whirl. The advance of the Frenchmen was hidden from him, but looking out of the narrow window in the opposite direction, he spied, less than a minute after the first clang, Joe Penwarden hurrying along towards the Towers as fast as his old legs would carry him. Running to the opposite side of the chamber, where a door admitted to the house, he yelled down the stairs: "Maister, here be old Joe a-comin’. Let un in by the back door." "Run, Dick," said the Squire, "you’re quickest. An addition to the garrison is welcome." Dick flew to the back door, whither Sam had summoned Penwarden through the turret window. During these few seconds the strokes of the bell were very irregular, but they did not cease. "What is it, Maister Dick?" said the old man, as Dick closed and barricaded the door behind him. "A gang of Frenchmen are running to attack us. They landed from Tonkin’s lugger about ten minutes ago. Go to Father, Joe; he’s in the front room over the porch. I’m going to the roof to see what they are doing." He leapt up the stairs three at a time, and emerged on the leads of the tower, whence, sheltered by the parapet, he could observe the enemy in safety. They were now within two or three hundred yards of the house. Dick was surprised that there was no sign of pursuers from the village. Now that the feeling between his family and the people was less acute, he had expected that the bell would already have summoned a concourse of fishers, miners, and men of all occupations. He was surprised, too, that the alarm was not echoed by the new bell which had recently been rigged up in the Dower House. Surely at such a moment personal feuds might well be forgotten, and private enemies unite to beat off a public foe. But between the Towers and the hill not a man was to be seen except the advancing Frenchmen. At the Dower House there was no sign of life or movement, a strange circumstance that set him wondering. Why was not John Trevanion alarmed at a French raid? Was it possible that he knew of it beforehand, approved it, had even arranged it? Having failed in some of his schemes hitherto, had he now joined hands with alien filibusters to deal his cousin a crowning stroke? As his eyes ranged round, Dick suddenly caught sight of a large vessel looming in the mist in a straight line with the head of the Beal. Its shape was very indistinct and blurred, but there was a certain familiarity in its aspect, and a sudden conviction flashed upon Dick that it was the same vessel as he had seen twice before in unusual and mysterious circumstances. Surely it must be the notorious privateer, the _Aimable Vertu_, owned by Jean Delarousse. Why it should have come to an insignificant place like Polkerran, when it might have gained rich prizes on the high seas, was a question that puzzled him greatly, unless Trevanion had made an alliance with the Frenchman.