"O, if they're too late!" cried Kit in swift agony, and turned to glance at the far frigate.
"God's never too late, my boy," answered the Parson, folding his coat carefully.
III
Rolling up his sleeves, he was looking through the seaward window.
The Gang were streaming across the greensward, and round the cottage, pointing, shouting.
Behind them came the Gentleman. He was swinging his sword, and chopping at the daisies. Whoever else was disturbed, it was not he.
Last the Grenadiers who formed the lugger-guard came toppling over the shingle-bank.
The Gentleman stayed them with imperious hand.
The Parson saw it and grinned. The chap, for all his high-faluting ways, was a soldier through and through. He missed no point, not the smallest. The Parson respected him.
The other, crossing the sward, raised his head and saw the man at the window. The eyes of the two met. Each smiled. Each knew the other's heart.