His back was turned. The boy could see nothing but a black coat, a pair of solid shoulders, and a curly head. This was not the hymn-singer to be sure. He was otherwise engaged. There was something across his knees, and he was tending to it, and talking as he worked. From his actions and his words, Kit would have sworn that he was bathing a child. For the man was talking as women talk to babies, and some men to the women they love--that little talk, half tender, half mocking, such nonsense, and so sweet. Then something flashed and sparkled against the dark of the door; and Kit saw it was no babe that lay across the man's knees, but a naked blade. He was furbishing it with a chamois leather, and caressing it with words. Now he lifted the blade on flat hands, and kissed the point reverently. Then he leaned forward, and peered round the half open door with extraordinary stealth. Comic as the action was, there was yet something terrible about it. Kit choked with laughter and fear. The man was half child playing peep-bo! and half spider waiting for a fly. That vision of the Eternal Child, which he had surprised in the eyes of old Ding-dong sailing into action, was manifest in this man too. Were men only children?--Yes, surely!--the good ones, at least. Only sinners grew old. Christian never ages. The man's head turned a trifle. There was a smile flickering about his lips; and in the smile was something of the ogre, and something of the boy. It was clear that he meant to kill; equally clear that he took joy in his purpose. He sat down again; and as he did so held up a finger, hushing himself. He was playing a game, unaware that he was being watched, and enjoying it intensely. Behind the door he sat now, blade in hand, spider-still. Plainly he was waiting for somebody. But for whom?--and what would happen when that somebody came? The door opened another inch or two, and through it, Kit saw the privateer, black on the white water. In a flash he understood. The man was waiting for the French. III The humour of the thing--this lonely swordsman lying in wait behind the door for the crew of the privateer--seized the boy by the throat. The laughter poured out of him headlong. The man leapt round, dark-faced and terrible. In a twinkle he was across the floor, wary as a panther. The door opened. Out he came, thrusting stealthily, his blade leading him. His flanks were covered, himself almost unseen in the dark of the door. Whatever else the man might be, he was a soldier born. Then he saw the boy and halted on the threshold. A man more aggressively English Kit thought he had never seen. Forty or thereabouts, five feet ten high, and perfectly compact: he wore no wig, and his hair broke in crisp grey curls all about his head: a ruddy face, fighting jowl, and blue eyes, kindled with equal ease to savagery or smiles.