As they came on the party in the little battery could see the French officers searching the opening with their eyes, and eagerly talking together; but they did not hesitate, apparently not realising that the place had been put in a state of defence, for the gun was drawn back, and the embrasure was of so rugged a construction that it did not resemble the production of a military engineer.
They ran their boat close alongside of the little pier, and one of the officers was about to spring out, when Syd shouted forth deeply as he could, as he stood on the breastwork.
“Hallo!”
The officer looked up sharply, smiled, waved his hand, gave an order to the sailors in the boat, and a dozen well-armed men sprang out.
“Halte!” shouted Syd again.
“Aha!” cried the French officer, leading his men forward. “Nous sommes des amis.”
“Oh, êtes-vous?” cried Syd. “I dare say you are, but you can’t land here. Back to your boat. Allez-vous-en!”
“Mais non!” said the French officer politely, and he still came on, smiling.
“This rock belong to his Britannic Majesty, the King of England. Waistcoat à nous, Monsieur. Allez-vous-en.”
“Mais non,” said the French officer. “En avant!”