"Oh let me! O do! sir! sir!"
He was hopping, trembling at the other's side.
The Parson with his slow and chewing mind was digesting the situation.
Beneath his calm, he was mad to know what was going on behind the shingle-bank. If he went himself, who would be left in garrison?—the old story.
Yet if he sent Kit?
Twice already he had let the boy go forth alone, and each time had barely plucked him from the jaws of death. Could he send him forth a third time to face what God should send?
Could he?
He locked his jaws.
Duty, duty, duty! a hard mistress for those who serve her, but the only one for an Englishman.
His mind made up, true man that he was, he wasted no time in excusing himself to himself or to others.