“Stop!” cried the lieutenant. “Take off that plaything, my dear lad, and buckle on my sword. That’s right, take up a hole or two in the belt as you go. Here’s a motto for your crest when you sport one, ‘Belton—Belt on’! Now God bless you, my lad! Do your duty for your own and your father’s sake.”
There was a quick grasp of the hand, and Syd ran out, fastening on the sword-belt as he went, and feeling rather a curious sensation in the throat as he mentally exclaimed—“I will.”
The men were lying down by the breastwork of the lower gun as he trotted over the slope, and to his surprise he found the boatswain seated on a piece of stone with his face puckered up, watching Pan whom he had just sent up to the magazine.
“Well: what news?” said Roylance, eagerly. “Are they gone?”
Every eye was fixed on Syd, as he replied—
“No; a boat is coming ashore, and they must make for here. We can hear what they have to say, but they must not land.”
A thrill seemed to run through the men, who lay ready to jump up and work the gun, and at a glance Sydney saw that their arms were all ready, and half the men were stripped for action.
“It is a French frigate?” said Roylance. “Yes.”
“Then who is to talk to them? Can you?”
“I know the French I learned at school.”