Then, when the moon shone out from behind a dark bank of cloud just before midnight, she shed her pale light upon the wide battlefield on both sides of the Mersey, whereon lay the bodies of no fewer than 30,000 Russians and 12,000 British, while 40,000 Russians and 16,000 British lay wounded, nearly 10,000 Russians having been disarmed and marched into the centre of the city as prisoners. The victory had only been achieved at the eleventh hour by dint of great courage and forethought, and being so swift and effectual it was magnificent. Manchester was safe, and the public rejoicings throughout that night were unbounded. The loss of life was too awful for reflection, for 12,000 of Britain's heroes--men who had won the battle--were lying with their white lifeless faces upturned to the twinkling stars. _BOOK III_ _THE VICTORY_ CHAPTER XXVIII. A SHABBY WAYFARER. In Sussex the situation was now most critical. The struggle between the French invaders and the line of Volunteers defending London was long and desperate, but our civilian soldiers were bearing their part bravely, showing how Britons could fight, and day after day repelling the repeated assaults with a vigour that at once proved their efficiency. Three days after the battle at Manchester had been fought and won, a man with slouching gait and woeful countenance, attired in a cheap suit of shabby grey, stood on the steps of the Granton Hotel, at Granton, and with his hands thrust into his pockets gazed thoughtfully out over the broad waters of the Firth of Forth, to where the Fifeshire hills loomed dark upon the horizon. Slowly his keen eyes wandered away eastward to the open sea, an extensive view of which he obtained from the flight of steps whereon he stood, and then with a sigh of disappointment he buttoned his coat, and, grasping his stick, descended, and walked at a leisurely pace along the road through Newhaven to Leith. "To-night. To-night at sundown!" he muttered to himself, as he bent his head to the wind. Involuntarily he placed his hand to his hip to reassure himself that a letter he carried was still safe. "Bah!" he continued, "I declare I feel quite timid to-night. Everything is so quiet here; the houses look deserted, and everybody seems to have left the place. Surely they can have no suspicion, and--and if they had? What does it matter?--eh, what?" Quickening his pace, he passed down the long, quaint street of Newhaven, lined on each side by ancient fishermen's cottages, and then, crossing the railway, passed under the wall of Leith Fort, whereon a couple of sentries were pacing. Glancing up at the two artillerymen, with the half-dozen obsolete guns behind them, and their background of grass-grown mounds and buildings, the wayfarer smiled. He was thinking how different would be the scene at this spot ere long.