As we went up the steep hill from Goodwick, we were joined by a party of the Fishguard Fencibles, sent to look after the scattered inebriates, and to take the swords and words of the retiring French officers. When we got to Brestgarn we encountered the grinning face of Llewellyn, about whom Nancy and I had had many an uneasy thought. He told us that his captors had not ill-treated him beyond making him work for them, that they had kept a sharp eye on him for a day and two nights and then he had managed to escape. He had hidden for a while, but as soon as possible had returned to look after his master’s goods. Llewellyn was a very ordinary looking man with unpolished—even uncouth manners, but it struck me that he had a stronger sense of duty than is usual. [Picture: Trehowel: General Tate’s Headquarters] A few steps further brought us to Trehowel. Out rushed all the dogs, barking, jumping, tail-wagging—absolutely wild with delight at the recovery of their own master. A grey-haired gentleman came forward and addressed Mr. Mortimer with much courtesy— “Sir, the dogs know you. I presume you are the master here?” “I was so once. Down, Gelert! Quiet, Corgé!” The officer then introduced himself to Mr. Mortimer as General Tate. He went on to say that he had understood that the Welsh people were ripe for revolt and that they might march throughout Wales and even a good deal further with wooden swords. That it had been a great disappointment to him to find this was not the case, that it had also been a source of annoyance to him to be deserted by his ships, but that the most unpleasant sensation he had ever experienced had been the failing of heart he had felt as his foot touched Welsh soil. I listened with all my ears to this interesting discourse, which happily I was able to understand, for General Tate being an Irishman spoke English perfectly. Our attention was diverted by a cry—a cry of surprise which broke from Nancy with a suddenness which startled all of us. We all turned hastily round and beheld the girl standing as if petrified, with her arm stretched out and her hand pointing towards a man who stood a few yards from her—apparently one of the stragglers among the French soldiers, for he was clothed in the same way as the majority of them—a British soldier’s uniform which had been dyed a rusty brown. The man looked dumb-foundered but Nancy found her tongue. “So it is you, James Bowen, who have betrayed your own people to strangers. Uch a fi, traitor; I could strike you where you stand!” “Shall I do it for you, Nancy?” suggested Davy, ready to hobble out of the cart. “No, he is not worth it. Let him go to gaol with his friends,” said Nancy, scornfully.