"They've a few small difficulties to get over first," Mr. Bryce remarked drily. "'Tis no case of walking quietly on shore. I'll be back in time to protect you both—though indeed, should the French arrive, my place would be in the ranks with others."
Mr. Bryce had not been in such spirits for many a day. He was a quiet and meek-mannered man generally; but the prospect of a fight made him feel young again. When next he returned, he carried a musket with supreme satisfaction. Few middle-aged men have not some remnants of boyhood in them; and all the boyhood in Mr. Bryce came that day to the surface. He studied his new weapon with glee, talking much to Polly of "firelocks," fingering daintily the touch-hole, showing her how the spark from the flint would set the gunpowder on fire, and foretelling the certain death of some unfortunate French conscript, forced to fight for Boney against his will.
"Nay, sir, but you need not kill him," remonstrated Polly. "Only fire at his limbs, pray, and we will nurse him till he is well again."
"I have writ a letter to your grandmother, Polly," Mrs. Bryce said in quavering tones. "Where is the wax? I wish it fastened at once. I protest, I've scarce strength to lift a penholder. But I've informed her that we'll go to Bath so soon as ever we may. I trust only that we'll not be taken prisoners for life before ever we're away from this."
Somewhat later, no further news having reached them, Mr. Bryce again sallied forth, and this time he consented to take Polly, both of them promising to return to Mrs. Bryce on the very first intimation that the invading fleet had been sighted. They had not walked far when a man on horseback drew near at a quick trot.
"'Tis himself!" Polly exclaimed, with enthusiasm. Both she and Mr. Bryce knew well that soldierly figure, with its peerless grace of bearing.
"All now will go well," murmured Mr. Bryce. "Let Napoleon come, and welcome—so long only as Moore is at hand."
Polly did not catch his words.
"The General! 'Tis the General, sir."
They stood still, and Moore, drawing rein sharply, sprang to the ground. He was well bespattered with mud, and he had the look of having ridden hard and fast.