But while Lieutenant Garnet, Bob Bertram, and others were using their utmost endeavours to storm the strong Block-house, Master Tim, as usual, was skulking out of danger among the crowd or non-fighters, and seemed more inclined to let others share the dangers while he did the talking. For Master Tim, as we have seen all through this story, could be very eloquent at times, and speak grandly about war and glory, and all such like topics; but if he could help it, he would not on any account run his own head into danger. The good citizens, seeing that he wore Ned Warbeck’s livery, expected him to distinguish himself after the manner Wildfire Ned had done, before their own eyes; but, instead of that, Master Tim drank deeply of old ale, and, standing on a door-step, out of danger, began to harangue the idle multitude something in this style:— “And why, my friends, are we here assembled?” was his sagacious inquiry, looking round as he spoke upon his inattentive audience. A forced smile on the faces of several, but not a word, attested their several estimates of the speaker. He proceeded. “That is the question, my friends—why are we here assembled? I answer, for the good of the people; we are here to protect them if we can, and to perish for and with them, if we must. I cannot forget my duties to my country, and to those in whose behalf I stand before the grim Skeleton Crew and the swords of Captain Jack’s men. “These teach me, and I would teach it to you, my friends—to fight—to hold out to the last. “We may not think of parleying with those in the Block-House, my friends, until other hope is gone. Whatever be the peril, till that moment, be it mine to encounter it. “Whatever be the privation, till that moment I am the man to endure it. “Be it for me, at least, though I stand alone in this particular, to do for the people whatever wisdom or valour may do, until the moment comes which shall call on us to pardon the villains. “The question now, my friends, is simply this—has that moment come or not? I pause for a reply.” “Who talks of parleying with them?” growled a smith, as he cast a glance of ferocity at the speaker. “Who talks of parleying at all to these cursed bloodhounds, that hunt for nothing but our blood? We cannot parley if we would—we must fight, die, do anything but parley with the fiends.” “So say I—I am ready to fight and die for my country. I say it now, as I have said it a hundred times before, but—” The speech which Tim had thus begun, the smith again interrupted with a greater bull-dog expression than ever—