But he had scarcely taken half-a-dozen steps when, from behind a bush close by, there rose a red-capped figure, and Trevanion looked straight at the muzzle of a firelock. He stopped, and before he could collect his wits, two other figures joined the first. "C’est lui!" cried one of the Frenchmen. They were three of the sentries whom Delarousse had placed around the village, and were hastening to rejoin their leader in advance of the band now dashing up the hill. Trevanion was so much taken aback as to be incapable of resistance. All that he did when the men roughly seized him was to protest that a mistake had been made. "Ah! ah!" said one of his captors. "On ne s’en trompe pas; pas de tout." The other two each took one of Trevanion’s arms, and marched him at a great pace through a gate in the fence towards the Towers, the third man bringing up the rear. What happened when Trevanion and Delarousse came face to face has already been related. Maidy Susan, when Trevanion had left the house, showed herself strangely callous to the sad plight of Cook. Convinced that the Corsican Ogre had at last effected his long-threatened landing, she wondered in her simple soul why her master had not ordered the alarm bell to be rung, and the men servants to seize their arms and sally forth to defend their country. She peeped in at the kitchen, saw that Cook had recovered sufficiently to fan herself and scream, and then ran upstairs to watch what was going on. Only a minute or two afterwards, Trevanion broke from his captors and fled, the yelling Frenchmen in full cry behind. "’Tis he! ’Tis Boney!" cried Susan. She clutched at the casement frame for support, then suddenly flew downstairs like a young deer. It was she who held the door open, she who was forced back by the onrush of the infuriated Frenchmen. She crouched behind the door until the last of them, Delarousse himself, passed, then sped to the top of the house and began frantically to pull the bell-rope. Meanwhile the men whom Trevanion had been at such pains to drill had fled towards the village, and fallen into the hands of Delarousse’s sentries. Trevanion darted along the passage and up the stairs like a fox seeking cover from the hounds. He flung himself into his room, slammed and bolted the door, caught up a pistol, and stood, panting from haste and terror, in the middle of the floor. He heard the loud and rapid tramp of his pursuers drawing near. "Keep out, or I’ll shoot you!" he cried. The Frenchmen laughed him to scorn. He was one; they were many. They set their shoulders to the door; the timbers cracked, gave way; a bullet whizzed harmlessly over their heads; and bursting into the room, they seized their victim and dragged him out and down the stairs again. Delarousse met them at the foot. Gasping for breath, he ordered some of his men to bind Trevanion’s arms behind his back and take him down to the lugger, others to set fire to the house.