“Right,” said the Captain, as from below them there came out of the darkness the regular thrup, thrup of a body of men marching together. Then, loudly, “king’s men?”
“Captain Revel?” came back in reply.
“Right. Captain Lawrence there?”
“No, sir; he had a sudden summons from the port admiral, and is at Plymouth. He gave me my instructions, sir—Lieutenant Kershaw. I have thirty men here.”
“Bravo, my lad!” cried the Captain. “Forward, and follow me to the house. Your men will take a bit of refreshment before we get to work.”
“Forward,” said the lieutenant in a low voice, and the thrup, thrup of the footsteps began again, not a man being visible in the gloom.
“Off with you, Nic,” whispered the Captain. “Get your men in hiding at once. This is going to be a grand night, my boy. Good luck to you; and I say, Nic, my boy—”
“Yes, father.”
“No prisoners, but tell the men to hit hard.” Nic went off at a run, and the lieutenant directly after joined the Captain, his men close at hand following behind.