A simple countryman, this François, he was a soldier because he had to be. That business beyond the wall, where the swords and shouts were, was little to his liking. This was a job after his own heart. He was a boy playing prisoner's base with another boy. Neither would be hurt. So as he slewed round the gable-end he smiled. Kit saw the smile and resented it. It angered him that this fellow did not take him seriously. He had not to resent it for long. The smile died a swift and terrible death on François' face. "_Dâme!_" he screamed, and slithered back on his heels. A musket barrel was thrusting into his flank. "_Pray!_" said a solemn voice. There was a horrible plop as the man collapsed, coughing. CHAPTER LXX THE LAST OF OLD FAITHFUL The old man clapped his smoking musket down, and snatched his cutlass. "Any more for me, sir?" "Another on your right, Piper!" "Very good, sir." The old man spun himself to the corner, and waited behind the wall. The boy, running with all his might, watched fascinated. Round the corner the doomed man whirled with a grin. The cutlass swooped. The fellow sprawled over his slayer, the shock of the onset rolling the chair back. The old man shook off the body, as he might have shaken off a cloak, and backed himself, cutlass bloody in his mouth. "In with you, Master Kit!" "You too!" panted Kit, thrusting the chair before him. "No, sir, no!" fiercely. "I can do a bit o business here yet." He was loading swiftly, eyes on the battle. "Starn agin the door, larboard in the loo'th, and cutlass-room all round--what better can a seaman want?" "But--" "Sharp, sir!--No time to waste. Here they come." The Gentleman had gathered his Grenadiers in his hand, and was swinging them back at the cottage. "In with you, sir!" urged the old man, ablaze. "Bolt and bar." "O Piper!" whimpering. "Nelson, sir!" The word went home. The boy shot in, and slammed the door. All again was darkness, and Blob breathing heavily at his side. "I'm through! I'm through!" came a triumphant yell. Kit's eye was at a crack. The Parson had broken away from the rout, and was making for the hills, the despatch-bag flopping in his back. The Gentleman, leading the charge at the cottage, turned. "_Abattez moi eel homme là!_" he sang. A Grenadier dropped to his knee. Outside the door a musket cracked. The Grenadier leapt to his feet, whirled round with floating tails, bowed to his executioner in absurdest doll-fashion, and subsided languidly into death. The Parson was away, the Gentleman after him with sleuth-hound strides. The bunch of Grenadiers stormed on for the cottage. Kit shot the bolts. He was banging the door of life on that maimed old man, and he would as soon have slammed the gate of heaven in his mother's face. "Good-bye, _dear_ old Piper!" he whispered. "Good-bye, sir," cheerily. "And if I might make so bold my sarvice to Lard Nelson--Ralph Piper, old _Agamemnon_."