"That's the ugly word," said the Parson between set teeth. "And may God have mercy on them as they deserve!... When I read that list," he continued, breathing hard, "for the first time in my life I was sick, _sick_ to call myself an Englishman.... There are men down there I've dined with, gamed with, chaffed with, may heaven forgive me for it! true men as I honestly believed, men I've seen drink the King's health and damnation to the French with three times three, as a Christian and a gentleman should. There are magistrates, squires, a peer or two, one sheriff, a deputy-lieutenant, and small fry-- publicans, carriers, smugglers, and the like--by the score." He spread squares of paper on the floor, piecing them. "And here's a map in sections of the whole country from Pevensey to Westminster--farms, inns, cottages, all put down, see!--where guides can be got; the wells marked, bakers' shops, mills; roads, metalled and unmetalled; and in the margin here and there a Church or what-not drawn out pretty as you please for a sign-post." The boy looked. Yes, it was the hand that had written the scent-bottle note. "There's enough in that bag to hang some of the best names in England," continued the Parson with gloating delight. "And I hope to have that bag in Pitt's hands before many hours are out." The colour stole back to his cheeks, and he began to rub his hands together. "Kit, my boy, we'll have such a hanging as was never before seen in England--God helping us.... That's what we're here for." The boy's eyes were raised to his. "No, sir, please. What we're here for is to save Nelson." III The Parson staggered. "Nelson!" he cried, ghastly. His mind clutched in the dark at something it had lost. "The plot, sir.... Beachy Head." "My _God_!" cried the Parson, and died against the wall. The despatch-bag and its contents had so possessed him that Nelson's need had for the moment slipped his mind. "And I call myself a soldier!" He leapt to life again. "What's to-day?" savagely. "Wednesday, sir." "Is it to-morrow?" "Yes, sir." The life faded out of his blue eyes. Till that moment he had been hugging the comfortable belief that Time, the soldier's best ally and worst enemy, was on his side. Sooner or later relief must come. Cosy in their tiny fortress, they could afford to wait for it. The Gentleman could not. Now for the first time the Parson learned that his anticipated ally was his foeman's. "Talk of Knapp!--I'm the one ought to be shot." "How soon shall we be relieved, sir?" asked the boy feverishly at his side. "When may we expect the soldiers?" The words revived the Parson like a whip-lash. Knapp, a soldier, had betrayed his trust. He, a soldier, had let slip thirty golden hours. He was bitterly jealous for his dear Service. "We shan't be relieved," he snarled. "How can the soldiers relieve us when they don't know we want relief? Knapp didn't get through--told you so already once."