As he shocked against the boat, the great tan sail filled. Shock and wind together gave the necessary impulse. The lugger, light as a bubble, swayed, slithered, crunched down the shingle, felt the greased bat, and took the water with a dip and lovely curtsey. "We're through!" roared the Parson, sprawling upon the side. CHAPTER LXXIII NOBLESSE OBLIGE I The anchor was trailing down the shingle-bank after them. The Gentleman had picked it up, and came walking down the slope, leaning back a little as he came. He was smiling the brave man's wistful smile. He had lost and he knew it. Blob snatched a musket and aimed at his waistcoat. The Parson struck up the barrel. "Your friends are safe, sir," he called, hoarse and quiet. "I've burnt the despatches." "They don't deserve to be, but thank you all the same," replied the other as quiet. He let the anchor go. It fell with a splash into the water. "I salute a gallant soldier, a gallant sailor, and my friend Monsieur Moon-calf!" he said, and stood, the water to his ankles, and hilt to his lips. II On the ridge the man-pack was at the worry. Suddenly a face gleamed up through the thick of them. "_Sir!_" screamed a voice. The Parson started round. "Knapp!" he cried, with sickening face. "Put back!" A hand was on his shoulder. It was Kit. The boy did not speak; he did not weep; he pointed seaward to where a topsail flashed white on the horizon. The Parson looked at the green waters swinging by. "And I can't swim!" he groaned. "God forgive me!" An inspiration seized him. He leapt on to the taffrail. "Sir," he shouted, pointing, "that's a brave man!" The Gentleman turned and saw the bloody business going on behind him. "I am the servant of the brave," he cried, and stormed back. The Parson sat down, and broke into tears. BOOK IV _NELSON_ I H.M.S. _MEDUSA_ CHAPTER LXXIV NATURE, THE COMFORTER I The crash of the waves on the shingle grew faint behind. The lugger began to prattle, as she took the water bobbingly. Overhead the sky was blue, with wisps of snow. Kit hugged the tiller, shivering in spasms. On his right Beachy Head, rusty of hide, waded white-footed into the deep. Before him opened the sea, a plain of palest blue, blurred with wind and patched here and there with silver. Eastward a road of twinkling light ran across the water. Pevensey Levels lay behind him, brown beyond the shingle. At back of them a range of dim hills rose and launched into the sea; and Northward a vague gloom in the sky told of man's great camping-place by the Thames. The great sea lolled about the boy, breathing in sleep. How soothing was the slow large life of the waters after the hubbub and horror of those last few minutes, already so remote! Above him a kittiwake dreamed. The boy let himself drift, his mind rocking to the rock of the sea.