The bunch of Grenadiers stormed on for the cottage.
Kit shot the bolts.
He was banging the door of life on that maimed old man, and he would as soon have slammed the gate of heaven in his mother's face.
"Good-bye, dear old Piper!" he whispered.
"Good-bye, sir," cheerily. "And if I might make so bold my sarvice to
Lard Nelson—Ralph Piper, old Agamemnon."
There was silence: then the patter of feet and deep breathing of men racing to kill.
Kit could see the back of the old man's head on a level with his eye, and just beyond, growing hugely on his gaze, the face of the leading Grenadier, livid beneath his bearskin.
Kit shut his eyes as he rammed the last bolt home. Close to his ear, he heard a voice, low as the sea and as deep. It was humming
Soldiers of Christ arise.
That too ceased.