“Yes; though the waves divide us, Yes; wheresoever you rove, I’m ever your own little Polly-- Ever your true true love.” She had altered it slightly, half by instinct, dropping the surname in the last verse. “In truth, Polly, you seem mighty indifferent to Napoleon’s doings,” objected Mrs. Bryce; after which she inquired of her husband how they were to escape inland. “Why, that I do not precisely see,” Mr. Bryce answered, with exasperating satisfaction. “Every man in the place will be wanted, and not a horse can be spared. Doubtless General Moore will arrange matters. I think ’tis needful that we should wait a while, and see what may happen. Depend on’t, Nelson has his eye upon the French fleet, and ’tis a question in my mind whether they ever can get so far as e’en to the coast of England.” Mrs. Bryce recurred hysterically to her former assertion that the French might arrive at any moment. “Hardly that, since ships must take time to go. But ’tis true they’ve signalled from Folkestone that the enemy’s boats had left Calais, and that the transports and ships at Ostend were also out and steering westerly. So, with this wind, they’ll probably be here in a few hours, if Nelson doesn’t cut them out on their way with his fleet. And I promise them, they’ll have a right good reception if they come. Eh, Polly? We’re making ready for ’em.” “I can’t have you leave us again, not for no sort of consideration,” objected Mrs. Bryce. “Your duty, my dear, is to protect us. If the French come, what may Polly and I do?” “They’ve a few small difficulties to surmount first,” Mr. Bryce remarked drily. “’Tis no case of walking quietly on shore. I’ll be back in good time, my dear, to protect you both, though, indeed, should the French arrive, my place would be in the ranks with others.” Mr. Bryce had not been in such excellent spirits for many a day. He was a quiet and meek-mannered little man commonly, but the prospect of a fight made him feel quite young again. When next he returned he carried a musket with supreme satisfaction. Few middle-aged men have not some remnants of boyhood in them, and all the boyhood in Mr. Bryce came that day to the surface. He studied his new weapon with glee, talking much to Polly of “firelocks,” fingering daintily the touch-hole, showing her how the spark from the flint would set the gunpowder on fire, and foretelling the certain death of some unfortunate French conscript, forced to fight for Boney against his will. “Nay, sir, but you need not kill him,” remonstrated Polly. “Only fire at his limbs, pray, and we will nurse him till he is well again.” “I have writ a letter to your grandmother, Polly,” Mrs. Bryce said, in quavering tones. “Where is the wax? I wish it fastened at once. I protest I’ve scarce strength to lift a penholder. But I’ve informed her we will go to Bath so soon as ever we may. I trust only that we’ll not be made prisoners for life, before ever we’re away from this.”