“Oh, Master Dan, wherever is Davy?” she again asked. She called me “master” when she remembered what I was going to be, otherwise my father being only a small tradesman in Fishguard, I was more frequently called Dan. I do not think I have given any description of Ann George, boys do not, as a rule, think much of personal appearance; nor did I. My idea of Nancy had been chiefly connected with the peppermints she had been in the habit of giving me as a child; I thought her a person of a free and generous disposition. She was a tall, fine young woman of five and twenty, with dark hair and eyes (these last being dark grey not brown), decided but pretty eyebrows, a well-shaped nose, and rather large mouth which disclosed when she laughed or talked (which was frequently) handsome white teeth. In short, she was the type of a good-looking Welsh woman. She had also a healthy colour, a warm heart, and a splendid appetite. It was not very surprising that she had (or had had) two admirers. I at once referred to this fact with a boy’s utter want of delicacy in matters of sentiment. “What are you bothering about Davy for? I thought it was Jim you liked.” “Don’t you ever say that fellow’s name to me again, Dan’el,” said Nancy with animation, her tears dried up and her eyes sparkling. “I hope never to hear of James Bowen again so long as I live.” I whistled. “Was that because he got into trouble for horse-stealing? Why, as to that, Davy’s none too particular.” “Dear anwyl, Dan, talk of what you understand, or hold your tongue! What do I care for their customs and laws? ’Deed to goodness, nothing at all. As to James Bowen if it had been only that—but there, a child like you can’t understand things.” “Can’t I!” I shouted, thoroughly incensed—of course we spoke in Welsh, and used a good many more exclamations than I have set down here. “Can’t I, indeed. I only know smuggling is—” “Don’t quarrel, children,” said Llewelyn, who was of a quiet disposition. “And don’t shout or you’ll bring the French upon us. Silence holds it here. {80} Just look there!” He pointed towards the opposite direction to that in which we had been looking, and where the French were still clambering about the cliffs dragging up the last of their barrels of ammunition and brandy. He pointed towards the steep road which leads from Goodwick to Fishguard. This road was thronged with people, horses, carts, furniture, cattle all mixed together, and all (the animate ones at least) making their way with such speed as their legs and the hill permitted away from the immediate neighbourhood of the invaders. The lights which some of them carried, and the glare from some gorse which had been set on fire, lit up the straggling, toiling multitude.