There could be little doubt that they had been spied by the preventives. What was to be done? On the one hand they could not depart, leaving Tonkin unwarned, to fall into the hands of the revenue officers. On the other hand, they were in no mood or condition to relish a brush with dragoons, and it was certainly a dragoon’s forage-cap that Nancarrow had descried. The best course seemed to be to wait; perhaps the revenue officers would grow weary first. Another hour passed. Then the tub-carriers saw the nose of the revenue cutter appear round the corner of the cliff. The game was up. No run could be made: the lugger would not put in while the cutter was in sight; and Nancarrow and his men in sullen rage left their posts and set off to trudge homeward. In a moment Mr. Polwhele was hailed by the lieutenant from the cutter. "Ahoy there, Mr. Polwhele!" he shouted. The riding-officer left his place of concealment, and moved to the edge of the cliff, within speaking distance of Mr. Mildmay. "Tricked again!" he said, angrily. "My word! Doubledick shall suffer for this." At that moment an unusual sound made them both start. It was like the distant thud of some object falling on the ground. "A gun! Bless my life, Polwhele, what’s this?" cried the lieutenant. "Goodness knows! A ship in distress, maybe. ’Tis no use waiting here any longer, so I’ll ride back and see." "I’ll come round in the cutter as quickly as I can. She must have run on the rocks in the mist. The wind wouldn’t cast her ashore—I’ll come round in the cutter." Mr. Polwhele hastened back to his men. They, too, had heard the shot. "Come, my men, that’s a big gun," said the riding-officer. "Smugglers be hanged! Maybe there’s rescue work to do. Soldiers, get your horses; we’ll dash to the village and do our duty. You others, march after us; there may be work for you, yet." The men were thankful for the opportunity of movement, and the prospect of breakfast. The dragoons raced to their steeds, mounted, and were soon galloping with Mr. Polwhele towards the village. In a few minutes they overtook the disconsolate tub-carriers. "Aha, you black-faced rascals!" cried Mr. Polwhele as he galloped by, adding jocularly: "Stir your stumps and come and fight Boney." "Not if I knows it," muttered Nancarrow, and forthwith struck inland, followed by the farm-hands. The fishers, being of sterner stuff, and taking Mr. Polwhele seriously, hastened their step, thinking of their wives and children in the village, perhaps at the mercy of the Corsican Ogre. Mr. Polwhele and the dragoons had got half-way to Polkerran when they were met by the Vicar’s messenger to Sir Bevil, and reined up. "Pa’son sent me to fetch Sir Bevil and yeomanry, sir," said the man. "The French hev landed." "Good heavens! Is it Boney himself?" cried the riding-officer. "No, it be Maister Delarousse from Rusco: he’ve come and catched Maister John, and hev shet hisself in the inn."