At that moment an unusual sound made them both start. It was like the distant thud of some object falling on the ground.
"A gun! Bless my life, Polwhele, what's this?" cried the lieutenant.
"Goodness knows! A ship in distress, maybe. 'Tis no use waiting here any longer, so I'll ride back and see."
"I'll come round in the cutter as quickly as I can. She must have run on the rocks in the mist. The wind wouldn't cast her ashore—I'll come round in the cutter."
Mr. Polwhele hastened back to his men. They, too, had heard the shot.
"Come, my men, that's a big gun," said the riding-officer. "Smugglers be hanged! Maybe there's rescue work to do. Soldiers, get your horses; we'll dash to the village and do our duty. You others, march after us; there may be work for you, yet."
The men were thankful for the opportunity of movement, and the prospect of breakfast. The dragoons raced to their steeds, mounted, and were soon galloping with Mr. Polwhele towards the village. In a few minutes they overtook the disconsolate tub-carriers.
"Aha, you black-faced rascals!" cried Mr. Polwhele as he galloped by, adding jocularly: "Stir your stumps and come and fight Boney."
"Not if I knows it," muttered Nancarrow, and forthwith struck inland, followed by the farm-hands. The fishers, being of sterner stuff, and taking Mr. Polwhele seriously, hastened their step, thinking of their wives and children in the village, perhaps at the mercy of the Corsican Ogre.
Mr. Polwhele and the dragoons had got half-way to Polkerran when they were met by the Vicar's messenger to Sir Bevil, and reined up.