To our great dismay we now heard voices approaching us from the other side; these proved to be some of the foraging parties making themselves acquainted with the larders and cellars of all the neighbouring houses. We crouched down lower among the gorse bushes, and I at least knew precisely the sensations experienced by a hunted and hiding hare. When this danger, too, was happily overpast, at all events for the moment, Nancy whispered to me— “Dan, they are a deal too near us here, and there’s more coming. I know a better hiding-place than this. Let’s make for the church.” I assented willingly; and we made as fast as we could for the church. It was a small but ancient building, full of queer holes and corners, with the which Nancy was better acquainted than I was, it being her parish church. The door was happily unfastened, but no Frenchmen had as yet invaded the sacred building, for we took the precaution of looking through the “leper’s hole” as soon as we had entered the porch. The leper’s hole is a little square window, the sides of which are so sloped as to command a view of the interior of the church, more especially of the chancel; so that in the old times even these miserable wretches—set apart in the porch—might still behold the high altar. We then looked with eagerness through this orifice, and perceived gladly that the building was dark and empty. So pushing open the door, we entered our sanctuary as though it had been a veritable city of refuge. Our first care was to secure the door as well as we could on the inside; then Nancy sat down in order to fetch her breath, while I reviewed the place and the situation. Neither were to my mind when I came to think of it. “What have you come here for, Nan?” I inquired. “I don’t like it—we’ll be caught here like rats in a trap. We can’t hide in the pulpit. I’d rather a gorse-bush in the open, now.” “Wait a bit, Dan, till I fetch my breath—and don’t talk; they may hear you,” said Nancy, not considering that she was talking herself. “Oh do make haste with your breath,” said I, “and tell me where it is.” I was full of curiosity to know where her hiding-place could be: the church was pitch dark, a few minutes of silence there seemed an age. “It’s not in a vault, is it?” I continued. “A vault—bless the boy—no! I’m not going into a vault before I can help it. Well, if you won’t be quiet, I suppose I’d better show you the place. It is at the other side of the church. Come across quietly, now.” We did go across as quietly as we could, considering the pitch darkness of the place, all blocked up with high pews according to the fashion of the time. In my after-career I had often occasion to reprove the occupiers of like boxes, who, trusting to their wooden walls to screen them, slumbered happily within a few yards of me, utterly forgetful of the treachery of their own noses.