John’s words had left me much astonished. I knew—from my studies under the divine above referred to—that the French lived in France, where some of them had lately been engaged in beheading the rest with the help of a newly discovered machine. So much I knew, but why John Trelethin should yell “French” at me as he passed, riding apparently for his life, I knew not. What were the French to him or to me? As I advanced pondering the matter—but in a purely impersonal manner, and without any keen interest—at a little distance further along the cliff I espied the owner of Trelethin, John’s master, standing very firm on his legs against a background of bright sea, his head inclining somewhat backward, while with both his raised-up hands he clutched a long spy glass, the small end whereof was applied to his eye. Following the direction of his spy-glass, I perceived a yet more astounding sight—astounding to us used to the world of lonely waters that lay stretched out in front of our homes. Three ships of war were passing slowly along our coast not far from land, they were accompanied by a smaller craft, which Mr. Williams informed me was a lugger. As he had been a sailor I took his word for it—but it did not make things clearer. What did it all mean? What did those vessels—or their inhabitants want here? They carried the English colours, I saw that for myself when Mr. Williams obligingly lent me the instrument. “Take a look for yourself, my boy,” he said—he was a man singularly free from pride—“Take a look at the blessed Frenchmen.” (He did not say exactly blessed, but out of respect to my cloth I subdue his expressions slightly.) “Frenchmen!” I cried. Then those were the French in those three vessels. I did not count the lugger, not being sure of her. Strange to say the first thought that flitted through my brain was one of pure joy; here was an excuse, real, tangible, and startling, for having shirked my studies. With a little help from imagination (his and mine, which might act on each other as flint on steel, for he was an excitable man), I trusted I might so alarm my clerical guide and master as to make him quite forget the fact that I had given to St. David’s Head the time I should have given to my own. The excuse might be made effective even should they prove to be not quite really French. “They’ve English colours, sir,” I said to Mr. Williams. “Foreigners are deceitful,” says he, “up to any tricks. I can see the scoundrels swarming on the decks.” (For by this time he again had applied the spy-glass.) “Ah!” he continued, handing the glass to his wife who had joined us, “If it was but night now and a bit stormy, we might put out a false light or two and bring them on the rocks in no time.” This was the moment afterwards immortalised by a local bard in these words—