"H'into em!"_ came a shrill treble from the rear. _"Cheerily, chaps, cheerily!"_ A crack from the cottage, the crack of doom. The leading ruffian, a lumbering great horse-faced fellow, clapped his hand to his side. _"What's that?"_ he snapped. _"That's death!"_ came a solemn voice from across the green. The man bowed his head as though in acknowledgement. _"I got it,"_ he said, and fell like a falling tower. His fellows wavered. This sudden arrow from the quiver of the Great Bowman, so unexpected expected, pierced the hearts of all. Into them, toppling, bowled Knapp like a cannon-ball. "_Ow,_ dear! _Ow's_ that? _Ow,_ my pore face!" The chirpy Cockney voice popped out from the thick of them like a cork from a bottle, and a smack from a sledge-hammer fist punctuated each ow. Blob, at a lurching gallop, plunged into the opening his leader had made, flashing his knife with a gurgling "Ho! ho!" Last came the Parson with terrific sword. It was all over before it had begun: a scuffle, a squeak, the flicker and tinkle of steel; and the cloud burst and scattered into its component drops. The smugglers scampered away. The Parson was wiping the point of his sword on a man. "Dirty skunks!" he panted. "Had their bellyful before I'd begun." Blob was laughing to himself. "Oi loike killin," he gurgled. "It goos in so plop-loike." A figure, tall and black as a winter tree, shot up against the light on the shingle-bank, and hung a second there. The Parson waved. "Too late, Monsieur le Poseur," he called mockingly. "Better luck next time." The little party trotted across to the cottage, and entered. Piper, awaiting them, slammed the door, and made all fast. "Near thing, sir," chuckled the old man. "Would have been but for that shot of yours," said the Parson, laying his burthen on the bed. He leaned up against the wall, and panted, his good red face dripping. "First round to England--eh?" he grinned. BOOK III FORT FLINT I BESIEGED CHAPTER XLIV THE ENGLISHMAN All was dark within the kitchen of the cottage. Spears of white light piercing the gloom told of day without. The cottage was fast as a fortress. Stout planks were nailed across either door. Heavy shutters darkened the windows. Through a loop-hole a stream of light poured in on Nelson's old foretop-man. Horn spectacles hung on his nose. His eyes were down, the silver head erect and drawn back. At arm's length beneath him he held a great Book in a splash of light. He was reading aloud, spelling out the words, as does a child, and following with huge finger. Outside a musket cracked; a bullet wanged against the wall; there was the crisp trickle of dislodged mortar. Still muttering, the old man closed his Book, and removed his spectacles. Then he slewed his chair round to the loop-hole, and felt for his musket. The light poured in upon the moon-washed head, the noble brow, and calm eyes peering forth.