It was splendid. Kit's blood danced to it. He thought of old-time tournays, the champion riding into the ring at the last moment. He was half sob, half song. The wine of glory flushed his veins as at the moment when he stormed with the crew of the _Tremendous_ at the heels of Lushy. His eyes ran; his voice broke. Now it was a shrill treble, now a hoarse bass. The Parson was chewing his lip. "Horse or foot, I wonder?" "Foot," cried Kit, stamping up and down. "Damnation!" grumbled the Parson. "Are they doubling?" "Not they!" cried Kit, mad to insolence--"doing the goose-step by numbers so far as I can see. Good old leather-stocks!" Knapp might have heard him: for the bugle close at hand blew the charge furiously. "Now they've broken into a double. Come on, you chaps! come on!" "Well done, Knapp!" muttered the Parson, swallowing his excitement. "Good little boy! Good little b-o-y! If he lives through this, he shall have a pint o beer to his breakfast to-morrow, by God he shall. Piper! how long'll they take getting here?" "Why, sir, a little better'n half an hour, I reckon. Drop down by Motcombe, through Upperton, and down along Water Lane." The Parson turned to Kit. "How long will it be before the tide will float the lugger, think you?" "Twenty minutes, sir." The Parson grunted. "Pot begins to boil," he said, and took off his coat. "O, if they're too late!" cried Kit in swift agony, and turned to glance at the far frigate. "God's never too late, my boy," answered the Parson, folding his coat carefully. III Rolling up his sleeves, he was looking through the seaward window. The Gang were streaming across the greensward, and round the cottage, pointing, shouting. Behind them came the Gentleman. He was swinging his sword, and chopping at the daisies. Whoever else was disturbed, it was not he. Last the Grenadiers who formed the lugger-guard came toppling over the shingle-bank. The Gentleman stayed them with imperious hand. The Parson saw it and grinned. The chap, for all his high-faluting ways, was a soldier through and through. He missed no point, not the smallest. The Parson respected him. The other, crossing the sward, raised his head and saw the man at the window. The eyes of the two met. Each smiled. Each knew the other's heart. "No, no," cried the Gentleman with a little wave. "I give nothing away. I can't afford to. I know my opponent." The Parson bowed, tightening his belt. And after all it was a pretty compliment from the first light cavalry-man in Europe. The Gentleman passed round the cottage and out of sight. "What shall you do?" asked Kit hoarsely at the Parson's elbow. "Why, the only thing there is to be done--and that's nothing." He sat down on a broken box, took out a handkerchief and began to furbish his blade with the delicate tenderness of a woman bathing a child.