He plunged head-first into Uncle Billy Clemo’s daughter-in-law, butting her over backwards. She clutched out to save herself, clutched him round the neck and took him with her. She lay on the ground, still grasping the cornet to her, and screamed her loudest. Mr. Carmichael struggled frantically; here was a pretty situation for a great military genius at the onset of his first battle! The woman had the hug of a she-bear, but his fury gave him the strength of ten. He broke her grip and plunged on, yelling to his men to fire. The only two who were present obeyed, but as he had neglected to tell them what to fire at they very prudently fired into the air. The cornet plunged on, plunged into somebody, shouted to the somebody to stop or be hewn limb from limb. The somebody fled pursued by Carmichael, turned at bay opposite a lighted window and he saw it was a woman. Another woman! Death and damnation! Were there nothing but damnation women in this damnation maze? He spun about and galloped back, crashed into something solid—a man at last!—launched out at him. His sword met steel, a sturdy wrist-snapping counter, and flipped out of his hand. “S’render!” boomed the voice of his own servant. “Stand or I’ll carve your heart out, you . . . Oh, begging your pardon, sir, I’m sure.” Carmichael cursed him, picked up his sword again and rushed on. By the sound of their feet and breathing he knew there were people, scores of them, scurrying hither and thither about him in the blank darkness, but though he challenged and clutched and smote with the flat of his sword he met with nothing—nothing but thin air. It was like playing blindman’s buff with ghosts. He heard two or three ragged volleys in the direction of the sea and galloped towards it, galloped into a cul-de-sac between two cottages, nearly splitting his head against a wall. He was three minutes fumbling his way out of that, blubbering with rage, but this time he came out on the sea-front. Gun-flashes on the slip-head showed him where his men were (firing at a boat or something), and he ran towards them cheering, tripped across a spar and fell headlong over the cliff. It was only a miniature cliff, a bank of earth merely, not fifteen feet high, with mixed sand and bowlders beneath. The cornet landed wallop on the sand and lay there for some minutes thinking he was dead and wondering what style of monument (if any) his parents would erect to his memory:— “_Hic jacet William Shine Carmichael, cornet of His Majesty’s Dragoons, killed while gallantly leading an attack on smugglers. Militavi non sine gloria. Aged 17._” Aged only seventeen; how sad! He shed a tear to think how young he was when he died and then slowly came to the conclusion that perhaps he wasn’t quite dead—only stunned—only half-stunned—hardly stunned at all.