‘They won’t be Indians,’ I replied at last; ‘nor yet Roundheads. There haven’t been any Roundheads seen about here for a long time. They’ll be Frenchmen.’
Harold’s face fell. ‘All right,’ he said: ‘Frenchmen’ll do; but I did hope they’d be Indians.’
‘If they were going to be Indians,’ I explained, ‘I—I don’t think I’d go on. Because when Indians take you prisoner they scalp you first, and then burn you at the stake. But Frenchmen don’t do that sort of thing.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ asked Harold doubtfully.
‘Quite,’ I replied. ‘Frenchmen only shut you up in a thing called the Bastille; and then you get a file sent in to you in a loaf of bread, and saw the bars through, and slide down a rope, and they all fire at you—but they don’t hit you—and you run down to the seashore as hard as you can, and swim off to a British frigate, and there you are!’
Harold brightened up again. The programme was rather attractive. ‘If they try to take us prisoner,’ he said, ‘we—we won’t run, will we?’
Meanwhile, the craven foe was a long time showing himself; and we were reaching strange outland country, uncivilised, wherein lions might be expected to prowl at nightfall. I had a stitch in my side, and both Harold’s stockings had come down. Just as I was beginning to have gloomy doubts of the proverbial courage of Frenchmen, the officer called out something, the men closed up, and, breaking into a trot, the troops—already far ahead—vanished out of our sight. With a sinking at the heart, I began to suspect we had been fooled.
‘Are they charging?’ cried Harold, very weary, but rallying gamely.
‘I think not,’ I replied doubtfully. ‘When there’s going to be a charge, the officer always makes a speech, and then they draw their swords and the trumpets blow, and——but let’s try a short cut. We may catch them up yet.’
So we struck across the fields and into another road, and pounded down that, and then over more fields, panting, down-hearted, yet hoping for the best. The sun went in, and a thin drizzle began to fall; we were muddy, breathless, almost dead-beat; but we blundered on, till at last we struck a road more brutally, more callously unfamiliar than any road I ever looked upon. Not a hint nor a sign of friendly direction or assistance on the dogged white face of it! There was no longer any disguising it: we were hopelessly lost. The small rain continued steadily, the evening began to come on. Really there are moments when a fellow is justified in crying; and I would have cried too, if Harold had not been there. That right-minded child regarded an elder brother as a veritable god; and I could see that he felt himself as secure as if a whole Brigade of Guards had hedged him round with protecting bayonets. But I dreaded sore lest he should begin again with his questions.