The Parson leaned out again. "I hope you'll come back to see your friends hung, my lord!" he bawled. The Gentleman turned again. "Friends?" "Well, aren't they your friends?--Lord Alfiriston, Sir Harry Dene, and the rest. I gathered they were from the despatch-bag you're so good as to leave in my hands." "I'm leaving no despatch-bag in your hands." The Parson jumped round. What did the fellow mean? Had he somehow?... No, there it was on the staple, the tarpaulin bag stamped with the Imperial Eagle. He took it down. "This is the boy I meant. Won't you leave this with us?" The Gentleman shook his head. "What you going to do with it?" mockingly. "What I'm going to do with you." Man and boy, hugging close in the window, each felt the other tauten. "What's that?" The other rolled his eyes heavenward. The Parson was breathing through his nose. "What ye mean?" A tiny smile broke about the Gentleman's lips. He raised a finger, and drew nearer on his toes, stealthy as a child about to reveal a secret to its mother; and there was a horror about him. "_Hush, and I'll whisper you!_" The horror grew upon the man. The Parson shivered. The very air was listening. "_Powder-mine._" "_A what?_" "_A powder-mine._" The laughter bubbled up in his eyes, and rippled about his face. He was a child, a cruel child, who springs a carefully-prepared surprise on a comrade, and dwells wantonly on the effect. "Not vairy nice, is it?" he bantered. "I _do_ feel for you." He stood beneath the window, hands clasped before him, chin down, the little maiden, demure yet malicious: the little maiden and yet--the Devil. "So sorray. But I do not want those despatches to fall into the hands of bad men. You forgive?" winningly. The Parson drew a great breath. It was so sudden, so aweful, so utter. It was Piper who broke the silence from below. "We're settin on a powder-mine, sir. Is that it?" "That's it." "Ah, well," came the philosophic voice. "Short and sweet--bless God. Better'n lingerin on it out." Kit panted, "Nelson!" and swooned. II When he came round the Gentleman was approaching slowly across the grass. He bantered no more. Maiden and Devil were dead. He was man, and grey as dew. "Captain Joy," he was saying quietly. "Let us face facts. Samson is bound. Over there," pointing to Beachy Head, "are the liers in wait. That frigate's the _Medusa_. Nelson's aboard of her. She can't escape." The words stung Kit to new life. "She can't escape perhaps," he shouted. "But can't she fight?" The other shook his head. "Why?" persisted Kit, hot for the honour of his Service. "Why can't she fight?" "She can't fight," said the Gentleman slowly, "because her powder's wet." "What!" bellowed the Parson--"more traitors!" "The Gunner is mine," replied the Gentleman briefly. "Oh, the Navy! the Navy!" cried the Parson, rocking. "But, I don't believe it!" screamed Kit. "Let him prove it! Let him tell us how he's worked it."