“Aye, and of the wine and the spirits, and of all the poor young master’s wedding feast. Oh, indeed, I wish I had known they were coming when I was baking those pies and brewing that ale!” I did not waste my breath by inquiring the reason of this aspiration, for the hill was rather heavy on my lungs, and her meaning was obvious. In a very short time we had reached Brestgarn, the abode of a worthy divine, the Rev. David Bowen, whom we found about to depart hurriedly, he having been no quicker to hear the alarming tidings than his neighbour at Trehowel; but, having heard it, he and his family were off for the interior as fast as horses and fright could take them. Only one of his servants, a man named Llewelyn, volunteered to stay behind, to keep, as far as in him lay, an eye upon his master’s place and goods. “Let us go to the top of Carnunda,” suggested this man. “We can see everything from there.” Carnunda is a rock situated just above most things in this region; more especially just under it lies the tiny village and church of Llanunda—Unda being manifestly a saint, though I cannot truthfully say I ever heard anything about him—or her. We got up to the top of this carn then, and there snugly ensconced between huge boulders of stone—the place is large enough to hold six or seven hundred men, well protected by natural rock-work—we gazed on the scenes all around us. First at the creek beneath us. It was now pitch dark—for the night was as black as the day had been bright—but the three tall ships of war were lighted up with cressets of fire; the lugger was there and the captured sloop, and the sea around them was alive with boats, still conveying troops to the land. The torches that they carried were reflected on the waves, elsewhere inky black—but here bearing long broken lines of light. Dark figures swarmed at the landing place, if so one could call, what was merely some flat slabs of rock; and all up the cliffs we saw ant-like beings crawling, and even (by the aid of a little imagination) we could fancy we heard their strong exclamations at the steepness of the path—made even steeper to them by the nature of their occupation, for they were rolling casks (evidently heavy) of gunpowder from where the boats landed them up to the top of the cliff. Some of these dark figures carried torches which shed a fierce glow for a small space through the black night. As we looked, one of the casks which had been by much effort shoved up to well-nigh the top of the cliffs, suddenly slipped from the Frenchmen’s hands and rolled rapidly down the declivity—the roll speedily becoming a succession of jumps and plunges, till with a wild leap the cask fled over a final precipice and disappeared in the sea. “Thank the Lord for that,” said Llewelyn. Nancy and I laughed aloud. It is impossible to give any idea of the exultation that we felt. “What words they are using over that!” said Nancy.