The fact is, they had merely doubled the east Head, where the land took a curve inwards. After a short walk they approached the village, which, in truth, consisted of a few small cottages and a large and comfortable farm-house and buildings. A lad pointed to the large house as Dame Moret’s, when asked. In the front were congregated several cows, and a girl milking them; sundry other farm-animals, in the shape of turkeys and fowls, which a very nice and respectable-looking old woman was carefully feeding, keeping away the old birds that the young might have fair play. The dame looked up as Lieutenant Thornton approached, which enabled a sage-looking old turkey-cock to walk off with the entire of a large barley-cake she was breaking up for the young birds. “Ma foi!” exclaimed the old dame, making a grab at his tail, “vous êtes un grand voleur, Maitre Jacques.” Bill thought the barley-cake much too good for “Maitre Jacques,” so he grabbed at him and got the cake, which proceeding created an immense row among the turkeys; but Bill very quietly commenced demolishing the cake, looking as innocent as a child. “Mon Dieu,” said the dame, laughing, “you are worse than Maitre Jacques; had you no breakfast, pauvre homme?” “No, dame,” said our hero, laughing, and trying to be heard in the din that ensued amongst the poultry. “Your good daughter recommended us to come here, as there is no cabaret in this village. We have been landed from an English ship. We have money to pay you for what you give us.” “Ah, ça! keep your money, my handsome lad. We can afford to give you something to eat and drink, without robbing Maitre Jacques of his breakfast. Where did you meet my girl?” “About a mile from here,” said the Lieutenant. “You are a stranger to these parts,” said the dame, dismissing her anxious audience with a shake of her apron; “come with me into the house.” “Lieutenant Thornton and Bill followed the dame into the kitchen of the farm-house, where a huge iron pot was boiling over a roaring log fire in a wide chimney, and a girl stirring the contents with a large ladle. The smell from the steam made Bill Saunders’s eyes water, and, forgetting his being a dummy, he rubbed his huge hands, saying: “My eyes, here’s a smell!” and then seeing by the look of our hero that he had committed an indiscretion, for the old dame looked at him in surprise, he coughed with such vehemence as to startle a curly-haired dog enjoying himself at the fire out of all propriety, for he flew at Bill instantly. “Eh!” said Dame Moret, “what does your comrade say?” looking into Lieutenant Thornton’s face. “He’s a Dutchman,” said our hero, scarcely able to keep from laughing at the grotesque efforts Bill was making to cover his mistake.