The fat man's knife flashed. The lad fell. The others raced on. What was it to them? As they came, they tossed up tormented faces. Their eyes were peep- holes. Through them he stared into the bottomless pit, and there beheld things not meant for human vision. His eyes passed with relief to the wholesome ugliness of the little Englishman pounding at the smugglers' heels. Knapp had dropped his drumsticks, and was limping along now naked- fisted. His eyes were shut, and his running drawers red in patches as his tunic. He was merry no more, his head on one shoulder, labouring painfully in his stride. It was clear that he was hard-hit, and just as clear that he meant going through to the finish. Behind him three Grenadiers, one behind the other, strung out across the green. The Parson coursed the last of them; the Gentleman coursed the Parson. They were all running swiftly, but the last two were the swiftest. The Parson was gaining on the Grenadier, and the Gentleman on the Parson. It was such a race as Kit had never seen before. Which would reach his man first? On that, it seemed to his prophetic vision, hung all. He tried to yell, "Come on, sir!" But his voice stuck as in a nightmare, and seemed to suffocate him. A blade soared and swooped. "_One!_" came the Parson's voice, clear across the green, as he took the falling man in his stride. The Gentleman, hard at his heels, tripped over the dead man. Collected as always, he snatched the fellow's musket, and sprawling on his face, fired at the Parson's back. A smuggler fell. "_Thank ye!_" gasped the Parson. "_Two!_" as the second Grenadier went down. Then the flight of men, pursuer and pursued, dipped out of sight; but Kit could hear the stampede of feet behind the bank racing towards him, then a hiss and stumbling fall. "_Three!_" panted the Parson's voice, and in a dying roar, "_Mind yourselves, boys! They're on you_." IV "Ready, Blob!" The boy was white as steel. He had no body. He was not afraid. Nelson was calling him, and he should not call in vain. Over the crest stormed the leading Grenadier, monstrous-seeming against the sky. Kit fired at the man's cross-belts. Down the shingle the fellow sprawled, whether dead or alive, wounded or whole, Kit knew not till he splashed into the water, and lay still in the flop of the tide. Behind him came the smugglers. As they topped the crest a star hung above their heads, then fell, flashing. "_Four--and--five!_" came the Parson's voice. "He's on us!" screamed Dingy Joe. "Sword and all!" They broke away to right and left along the ridge like a covey of partridges when the hawk swoops. Anything to get away from that avenging voice roaring out of a whirlwind of lightnings! "After em, Knapp!" Slung along by his own impetus, the Parson hurled down the steep. "Warm work!" he panted, grinning luridly at the boy, and he brought up with a bang against the lugger.