Looking forlorn and frightened, and regarding the troopers with eyes which showed even now, though rather cowed, their hatred of them, the peasants picked up their comrades, of whom a number had fallen, and bore them to the gate. Two minutes later they were gone, wending their way from the defences sadly, and in different spirit from that which had filled them a little while before. Crash went the gate. Howeley threw the bar into position and turned the key. "Well done!" came from the window above in loud tones. "Well done all of you!" Glancing up, Tom saw the jovial naval lieutenant waving eagerly to him, while close at hand was Jack's grinning and perspiring face. He was actually shaking a fist at our hero. "Lucky brute!" he growled in a voice so quaint, and with such queer grimaces, that even the French troopers could see the humour. "Lucky brute to be able to hop about and take part in all these skirmishes. Wouldn't I give something to be in your shoes." "And right well ye'd do, sir, begging pardon," came from Andrews, whom the contest had worked up to a degree of excitement. "But it's well for us all that Mr. Clifford's here, begging pardon, sir." "Well said," shouted Mr. Riley. "Ah, I wish to goodness I could talk French! I'd make a speech in Tom's favour. I'd call for cheers." "Then here's three cheers fer Mr. Tom," came from Andrews in bellowing tones, cheers in which the troopers joined lustily, for they fully understood the gist of what was passing. "And now?" asked Mr. Riley, wiping the perspiration from his face. "Now, Tom, after that precious near squeak?" "Any damage done?" asked our hero at once. He ran his eyes over the troopers, and soon discovered that four had been wounded, though, fortunately, none of the wounds were severe. "Then pitch those ladders up against the wall again and look about for a strong plank. We'll make a bit of a platform above, where we can post a few men. They'll be able to keep others of the peasants from trying the same game. How are things passing at the church door?" An inspection there proved that the enemy had retreated, though doubtless some of them were within the church. However, for the moment at least, the bulk of the mob had gone, and Tom took advantage of the lull to make his preparations for feeding the defenders. The kitchen fire was soon roaring up the chimney, while outside, in the yard, there was another blaze. A trooper, booted and spurred, and stripped to his shirt, bent over a huge basin perched on a low wooden table, and sturdily pummelled a mass of dough. Near at hand stood another, stripped like his fellow, thrusting his long moustaches upward toward his eyes. "_Nom de nomme_, but this is soldiering!" he was saying to his comrade, as he added handfuls of flour from an open sack. "This is what a man can call campaigning." "Eh? Ah!" the other grunted. "_Mais pourquoi?_"