The Parson nodded grimly. "Yes; I've a list of em." "_Your_ countrymen, _my_ friends"--with a malicious little bow--"the Friends of Freedom." The Parson leaned out, black as night. "Friends of Freedom be d-----d!" he thundered--"bloody traitors!" The other raised a shocked hand. "Holy Padre! Reverend Father! _Virginibus puerisque_, if you please." The Parson turned to find Kit at his elbow. "I'm only a deacon," he grumbled. And it's only what you French gentry call a _fashion de polly_." "I am not French--or only on my mother's side," replied the other gently. "Well, Frenchified then--it's all the same, ain't it?--all that bowin and scrapin and humbuggin business--you know what I mean." "Yes, yes, I know, my polished friend.... And as to these same _couleur-de-rose_ gentry I understand your feelings entirely, and for the very good reason that I share them. And I don't mind telling you in confidence that as to the bulk of them your description is not too highly-coloured." "And if _they're_ that, what are _you_, I'd like to know?" shouted the Parson. "I am an Irishman. I serve my country--I do not sell her." "And are all Irishmen traitors?" A gleam came into the other's eyes. He smiled frostily. "All who are worthy of the name," he said.... "But to return to our sheep. They have served me, these sanguinary gentlemen, so I can't stand by and see them hanged, when I can save em. And to put it shortly--I want that despatch-bag, please!" He came forward like a child, hand outstretched, and smiling charmingly. The Parson flung out a finger and volleyed laughter. "And he thinks he's going to get it! Ask pretty; don't forget to say please; and he shall have everything he wants, he shall, he shall. There's a lambkin! there's a little lovey!" He leaned out again. "And what you going to give us for it?" "Why, a free pass-out, with all the honours of war." "Thank you for nothing. Seems to me I can have a free pass-out whenever I like. I've just free-passed out a man. And I'm only a minute or two back myself from a little stroll with a lady." III The Gentleman sauntered forward. "I am sorry to be so importunate," he said gravely, "but I _must_ have those despatches and I mean to have them." He stopped. "The position is this: Nelson is _mine_." He brought down his right fist on his left. "_Nothing_ can save him now--_nothing_. This time to-morrow, so sure as that sun will rise, he will be dead or on the way to Verdun. That has been arranged." "_How?_" thundered the Parson. "_How_ has it been arranged?" The Gentleman was pacing to and fro before the window; and his eyes were down. "It's enough for you to know," he said at last, "that I--I have influence with a lady, who--who has influence with Nelson." "What _does_ he mean?" whispered Kit. The Parson had turned very white. He knew that woman, by nature so noble; and he knew something of her history--the history of the shame of man.