Then the song died, and his soul with it.
He could hear voices behind the shingle-bank. A double-sentry at the least had been left over the lugger.
Well, they must go through with it now.
"Knife ready?" he croaked.
"Ye'."
The grass was growing sparse about them. He began to hear his feet. So did the men beyond the bank. There was the click of a cocking musket. The fellow was ready: the fellow would pot them at twenty yards as they came over the crest.
Thought was lost in lightning action.
"Holà, l'ami!" he yelled.
"Qui vive?" came the unseen voice.
"Ami! à moi!"