I was, at the time of which I speak, but a youth of fifteen, as thoughtless and careless as most lads of that age; not very sensible to danger, save when it presented itself face to face with me at no more than arm’s length, under which circumstances candour compels me to own I did not always enjoy it. I trust that I may say without undue boasting that I did not fear anything greatly as long as it was out of sight, for which reason I have often thought that had I been born a generation or two later, and had I selected a soldier’s career instead of that of a divine I might have fought excellently at a distance of a few miles from the enemy: though at close quarters I will admit that any unexpected danger might perchance produce a sense of amazement which the uncharitable might set down to faint-heartedness. But that my nephews, nieces, and neighbours generally may know the truth concerning this matter—the landing of the French at Fishguard in 1797, I, Daniel Rowlands, clerk, being aged, but still of sound mind, have written this narrative—which when duly set forth will, I hope, convince the most sceptical as to the sort of spirit which animated my countrymen (if not myself), and still more my countrywomen. On this fair morning then, at about ten o’clock, when I ought to have been pursuing my studies under the fostering care of one of the clergy at St. David’s, I was in reality strolling along the headland of that name, led astray by the beauty of the day, which seemed too fair for book-lore; I was strolling along, doing nothing, thinking of nothing, wishing for nothing, yet, having found for the nonce the secret of true happiness, when I perceived a man on horseback approaching me at a furious rate. In spite of the pace at which he was advancing I recognised him as a servant of Trelethin. “Whither so fast, John?” I shouted, in our own tongue. He was past me as I spoke. “The French, the French!” came back to me on the breeze mingled with the sound of his horses’ rushing hoofs. His voice or my ears failed, for I heard no more save—when the thunder of the hoofs had ceased, the duller but more continuous thunder of the waves rolling in freshly at the foot of the rocks.