Then came a time of deep silence when each individual among us concentrated his senses in his ears. I, being but a boy, allowed my eyes a little freedom; most other eyes were concentrated on the road where the French would first appear, but I permitted mine to gaze around me, when I at once made a discovery. The cart against which Nancy had leant contained a man, the outline of the back of whose head seemed strangely familiar to me. I could only see the back of his head for he was leaning out of the cart with his face turned away from me, but towards another person who was standing on the other side of the cart. Some bushes, behind which the cart had been drawn up, prevented a clear view, so I shifted my position a little—in fact, went straight up to the group, who seemed to be placing rather a blind confidence in their retired situation, and in the magnetic attraction of the enemy. I rounded the cart; the young man was, as I had imagined, Davy Jones, wounded foot and all; the young woman was, as I had guessed, Nancy George. Their heads were very near together, perhaps they were talking about splints. “Why, Nancy!” I exclaimed, “is that you?” “Yes, of course it is, Master Dan—and why shouldn’t it be?” cried Nancy, as red as a turkey-cock, and as inclined to show fight. “Oh, all right. I only thought you must be somebody else,” I returned, politely. Davy broke into a roar of laughter, and Ann, in spite of her indignation, showed her row of white teeth. “Go away, you tiresome boy, and look out for the French,” was her recommendation. “And not for the—” but my sentence was cut short by a shove from Nan’s vigorous arm which sent me flying for some paces. “Take care of the spoons, Ann!” was my parting shot, as I made my way a little further down the hill. We all sat down on the ferny slopes and waited and listened. As a general rule nobody talked, which showed how grave was the occasion. In front of us was the sea dark grey to-day as was the sky; the sands sometimes almost golden, were, on this dull February day, only another shade of grey; and the great boulders of rock which cropped up everywhere were of the same colour. And this greyness seemed to suit this scene better than the brightness of Wednesday would have done; for though it was a day of triumph to us we could not forget that it was a day of humiliation and bitterness to these hundreds of men who were approaching us on the other side of the hill. The tide was coming in, but without any sparkle and dash, sullenly; and the south-west wind blew in gusts the strength of which told plainly of power in reserve: one could feel that it was capable of violence.