I will not deny now, after the lapse of so many years, that my heart at this moment beat unpleasantly fast. I had already watched the landing of some of the French troops, but from a considerable distance, and there had been something unreal about the scene, something like to play-acting, or a dream; but now that I actually heard their voices, the effect was very different. They were really here, close by; there was no mistake about it. I had an almost overwhelming desire to take to my heels and run for it, but in spite of a very real fear, two feelings restrained me—one was a hesitation on account of Nancy, whom it seemed mean to desert; the other was that curiosity to which I have already alluded, and which powerfully possesses most of the inhabitants of these regions, but more especially the females. The twilight was rapidly sinking into darkness as I crouched lower among the bushes and peered out with eyes which doubtless resembled those of a frightened bird. Never hare in its form felt more of a flutter at the heart than I experienced as those screeching, and yet savage, voices drew nearer and nearer. I did not understand French, but if I had I trust I should not have understood the nature of the expressions those men were using. It must be remembered that at that time we were accustomed to think of a Frenchman as of a two-legged tiger—which we spelt with a y—and then perhaps the horror that thrilled me may be understood. Suddenly the vague terror was turned into reality, as between me and the dusky sky loomed forth a wild figure, then another and another, then a confused crowd. I could stand no more. With one bound I passed from behind my bushes in through the back door of the house— “Nancy, hang those spoons!” I spoke in Welsh, and I fear my expression was still more forcible. “Come this minute, I’ll wait no longer.” “Why, who asked you to wait?” said Ann George, ungratefully. “I thought you’d be half-way to Goodwick ere this.” At this moment her speech was interrupted by a sound as of thunder at the front door, while the parlour window came flying into the room before the butt-ends of French muskets. Even Ann George thought it now high time to take her leave. So we departed as quickly and as silently as possible through the back door, while the front door was being shivered to atoms, and the enemy was pouring into the house over its remains. Quickly, indeed, we went now and the falling night favoured us; the enemy’s own noise too rendered the slight addition of our footfalls totally unobservable. All the space between Trehowel and the cliffs swarmed with Frenchmen, and the uproar was bewildering. “They’ll make short work with your master’s ale, Nan,” I gasped, as we ran along under the cover of the earthen banks topped with gorse.