I heard Master Anthony shuffling down the stoneflagged passage. "What do yonder casks hold, sirrah?" demanded the dragoon. "They are empty, sir," replied the landlord, in a trembling voice. "Empty, thou lying rogue? I heard someone sneeze!" "'Twas I, sir. A bad cold, I assure you," pleaded the landlord. "You are getting light-headed in your cups, Dick!" exclaimed another half-tipsy trooper. "But I'll swear there's good liquor in those casks." Master Anthony vehemently protested that they were empty. Then, to my horror, I heard another man exclaim: "Stand aside, you knock-kneed ale-seller! A pistolbullet will show whether you speak the truth." "Wouldst spoil a good man's casks?" protested the landlord; but his words were of no avail, and I heard the dragoon cock his pistol. There were, I remember, four of these casks in a row, and three were occupied by us, while one of the two middle ones was empty. There was a chance that the empty one would be the target of the rebel's pistol, but directly I heard the sound of the pistol being cocked, I squeezed myself close to one side of the cask, so that my body was clear of the centre. Then I braced myself up, resolving, even if I were hit, to endeavour to suppress a cry lest I and my companions should be discovered. It seemed ages ere I heard the report, and with a splintering of wood a hole was drilled through the cask where I stood, the bullet passing close to my knees, and burying itself in the opposite side. "The old rascal is right, the cask is empty," said one of the men, with a laugh. "I'll wager a tankard of cider that you'll not nick my mark," exclaimed the soldier who had fired. "Done cried the other. I tell you, you've lost already." "A truce to this foolery," interrupted another, evidently a sergeant. "We must needs be back in the camp outside Basing ere dark, and 'tis well over a good twenty miles. To horse! To horse, I say!" Grumbling and swearing, the soldiers trooped out of the inn, and for the present our peril was past. At dusk three men in rustic garb emerged from the Red Lion. One set off at a swinging pace down the lane leading to Clanfield, the second strode with awkward gait along a pathway over the hills towards Horndean, and the third, carrying a load of faggots, turned off down the Havant road. 'Twas the parting of the three staunch comrades. My love-locks had been shorn close to my head, a rough smock covered a suit of worn clothes that would ill become even a farmer, while the faggots I bore served a twofold purpose. They formed a fitting complement to my disguise as a countryman, while in the centre of the bundle reposed my trusty sword, which I would not part with under any circumstances.