The taunt touched the Parson on the raw.
He swung round savagely.
"Your Service!" he stormed. "At a time such as this, there is only one Service for loyal hearts, and that's the Service of his country."
The lad quailed before the thunder-and-lightning of the man's wrath.
"Why can't we sally?" sullenly.
The Parson shot a hand toward the window.
The boy followed his pointing finger.
In the open, behind the wall, was a camp-fire, a group of soldiers squatting round it, arms piled. To right and left, embracing the cottage, a chain of sentries ran, tall men all in tall-plumed bear- skins.
Old Piper was right. A cordon indeed!
"Grenadiers of the Guard!" rumbled the Parson in the boy's ear, rolling his r's like a feu de joie. "Marksmen to a man; veterans all; and half of them decorated."