The sun was setting as the first boats set down their load on British soil. There were not many spectators of this act (the only one of a like nature since 1066, as far as my knowledge—not very profound—of history went), the inhabitants of the district, when they perceived that the landing was to be on their own coast, having dispersed as quickly as a swarm of ants amongst whom a foreign body is introduced—each one making with the utmost speed for his own home in order to retreat with his valuables (including his family) further into the interior. I, however, was but young, and concluded that my family, who lived in Fishguard, could very well take care of themselves; while it was possible that my father, who was a somewhat stern parent, might not even accept the (to me) absolute necessity of keeping an eye on the French as a valid excuse for departing from my studies at St. David’s without leave from my master. I had a certain amount of fear of the French, I do not deny it; but it was as yet in the abstract, and was a very different thing from the absolute fear I had of my father when I caught him (and he caught me) in a bad mood. Besides, though I considered curiosity a childish and feminine quality, and as such infinitely beneath my dignity, still I must own I did feel a sort of craving desire to know what those people were going to do next. So, hidden in a gorse bush on a headland which commanded the creek, I watched the sun go down like a red ball into the sea, throwing a light as of blood on the muskets in the boats beneath me, making the dark figures that swarmed over the sides of the ships look darker and more grimy, lighting up the three-coloured flags that unfurled themselves to the night breeze. Then there came a long path of crimson right across the grey sea, which, dying out as the sun set, showed that this fair day was gone—a day too fair and sweet to be the setting for foul deeds. Suddenly there rose a shriek, or, rather, a succession of shrieks breaking through the twilight quiet, and a young woman shot out like an arrow from the back door of Trehowel, darted past me without pausing to answer a question, and, shrieking all the time, fled away into the interior, clutching tightly in her hand a foaming jug of beer. I heard afterwards that she ran on for miles, still clutching that jug of beer, which she had been drawing for the (supposed) English officers; when at last her master had awakened to the fact that the French were actually at his doors. She ran thus for miles, not even stopping to drink the beer. She was shortly after followed by Mr. Mortimer himself, who came across the courtyard laughing in spite of the seriousness of the occasion, for he must needs smile at a joke. He spied me, for indeed I had jumped up to question Sally, and he came towards me. “The poor maid has had a scare,” said he, with a twinkle still in his eye. “But, in truth, Dan, my boy, I suppose it is time to be off.”