that unfurled themselves to the night breeze.  Then there came a long path of crimson right across the grey sea, which, dying out as the sun set, showed that this fair day was gone—a day too fair and sweet to be the setting for foul deeds.

Suddenly there rose a shriek, or, rather, a succession of shrieks breaking through the twilight quiet, and a young woman shot out like an arrow from the back door of Trehowel, darted past me without pausing to answer a question, and, shrieking all the time, fled away into the interior, clutching tightly in her hand a foaming jug of beer.  I heard afterwards that she ran on for miles, still clutching that jug of beer, which she had been drawing for the (supposed) English officers; when at last her master had awakened to the fact that the French were actually at his doors.  She ran thus for miles, not even stopping to drink the beer.

She was shortly after followed by Mr. Mortimer himself, who came across the courtyard laughing in spite of the seriousness of the occasion, for he must needs smile at a joke.  He spied me, for indeed I had jumped up to question Sally, and he came towards me.

“The poor maid has had a scare,” said he, with a twinkle still in his eye.  “But, in truth, Dan, my boy, I suppose it is time to be off.”

“Oh, there’s a pity,” said I; “about Master Mortimer’s wedding—and all the meats and drinks!”

“Well, yes, I never meant them for the parley-vous,” said he, mounting his horse which one of his farm-boys had brought out; “but I dare say they’ll enjoy them all the same—they won’t be wasted.”

He turned in the saddle to give a last look at his old house, standing dark against a yellow-green twilight sky, pranked out with all the mockery of boughs and flowery arches.  The trees in the courtyard had not yet put forth their leaves, but branches of myrtles and ever-blooming gorse and great bunches of primroses had made the place gay.  Mr. Mortimer’s face changed as he looked; he made no movement with the reins; he was very loath to leave his home.  In his mind’s eye he was viewing the heap of smoking ruins he might see when next he came, and he seemed to be resolving to meet fate and the French on his own threshold, when a woman’s quick step came out of the now-deserted house.

“Oh, master,” she cried, running up to us, “ar’n’t you off yet!  Quick, there isn’t a minute; they are coming up the hill.  For the young master’s sake,” she whispered.  “Remember, you have got the money and the papers.  Quick!”

He nodded, then shaking his rein, rode off without a word.

“And what are you going to do, Nancy?” said I.  “Isn’t it time for you to be off too?”

“Oh, no odds about me.  I’ll slip off somehow, but I must get the silver spoons first.”

Then she turned from me, and her voice broke suddenly.

“Wherever is Davy—oh, wherever is he?” she sobbed.

“Cheer up, Nancy, my maid,” said I, being well acquainted with her, and only ten years younger—an inequality made up for by my superior station and parts.  “Wherever Davy is he’s in mischief—that you may take your davy of; but he always comes out of it somehow.”

I hope the reader will pardon this expression, but I was not at this time even a curate—being but fifteen—and the chance of my ever attaining that station seemed but remote.

At this moment the clang of arms and the sound of high-pitched voices broke on our ears.

“I’ll have those spoons if I die for it!” exclaimed Ann, who was not much given to the melting mood.  “Run, Dan, make for Fishguard as fast as you can.”  And without another word or a sign of personal fear, Ann George disappeared into the house.

I will not deny now, after the lapse of so many years, that my heart at this moment beat unpleasantly fast.  I had already watched the landing of some of the French troops, but from a considerable distance, and there had been something unreal about the scene, something like to play-acting, or a dream; but now that I actually heard their voices, the effect was very different.  They were really here, close by; there was no mistake about it.  I had an almost overwhelming desire to take to my heels and run for it, but in spite of a very real fear, two feelings restrained me—one was a hesitation on account of Nancy, whom it seemed mean to desert; the other was that curiosity to which I have already alluded, and which powerfully possesses most of the inhabitants of these regions, but more especially the females.  The twilight was rapidly sinking into darkness as I crouched lower among the bushes and peered out with eyes which doubtless resembled those of a frightened bird.  Never hare in its form felt more of a flutter at the heart than I experienced as those screeching, and yet savage, voices drew nearer and nearer.  I did not understand French, but if I had I trust I should not have understood the nature of the expressions those men were using.  It must be remembered that at that time we were accustomed to think of a Frenchman as of a two-legged tiger—which we spelt with a y—and then perhaps the horror that thrilled me may be understood.  Suddenly the vague terror was turned into reality, as between me and the dusky sky loomed forth a wild figure, then another and another, then a confused crowd.

I could stand no more.  With one bound I passed from behind my bushes in through the back door of the house—

“Nancy, hang those spoons!” I spoke in Welsh, and I fear my expression was still more forcible.  “Come this minute, I’ll wait no longer.”

“Why, who asked you to wait?” said Ann George, ungratefully.  “I thought you’d be half-way to Goodwick ere this.”

At this moment her speech was interrupted by a sound as of thunder at the front door, while the parlour window came flying into the room before the butt-ends of French muskets.  Even Ann George thought it now high time to take her leave.

So we departed as quickly and as silently as possible through the back door, while the front door was being shivered to atoms, and the enemy was pouring into the house over its remains.  Quickly, indeed, we went now and the falling night favoured us; the enemy’s own noise too rendered the slight addition of our footfalls totally unobservable.  All the space between Trehowel and the cliffs swarmed with Frenchmen, and the uproar was bewildering.

“They’ll make short work with your master’s ale, Nan,” I gasped, as we ran along under the cover of the earthen banks topped with gorse.

“Aye, and of the wine and the spirits, and of all the poor young master’s wedding feast.  Oh, indeed, I wish I had known they were coming when I was baking those pies and brewing that ale!”

I did not waste my breath by inquiring the reason of this aspiration, for the hill was rather heavy on my lungs, and her meaning was obvious.  In a very short time we had reached Brestgarn, the abode of a worthy divine, the Rev. David Bowen, whom we found about to depart hurriedly, he having been no quicker to hear the alarming tidings than his neighbour at Trehowel; but, having heard it, he and his family were off for the interior as fast as horses and fright could take them.  Only one of his