He nodded, then shaking his rein, rode off without a word.
“And what are you going to do, Nancy?” said I. “Isn’t it time for you to be off too?”
“Oh, no odds about me. I’ll slip off somehow, but I must get the silver spoons first.”
Then she turned from me, and her voice broke suddenly.
“Wherever is Davy—oh, wherever is he?” she sobbed.
“Cheer up, Nancy, my maid,” said I, being well acquainted with her, and only ten years younger—an inequality made up for by my superior station and parts. “Wherever Davy is he’s in mischief—that you may take your davy of; but he always comes out of it somehow.”
I hope the reader will pardon this expression, but I was not at this time even a curate—being but fifteen—and the chance of my ever attaining that station seemed but remote.
At this moment the clang of arms and the sound of high-pitched voices broke on our ears.
“I’ll have those spoons if I die for it!” exclaimed Ann, who was not much given to the melting mood. “Run, Dan, make for Fishguard as fast as you can.” And without another word or a sign of personal fear, Ann George disappeared into the house.
I will not deny now, after the lapse of so many years, that my heart at this moment beat unpleasantly fast. I had already watched the landing of some of the French troops, but from a considerable distance, and there had been something unreal about the scene, something like to play-acting, or a dream; but now that I actually heard their voices, the effect was very different. They were really here, close by; there was no mistake about it. I had an almost overwhelming desire to take to my heels and run for it, but in spite of a very real fear, two feelings restrained me—one was a hesitation on account of Nancy, whom it seemed mean to desert; the other was that curiosity to which I have already alluded, and which powerfully possesses most of the inhabitants of these regions, but more especially the females. The twilight was rapidly sinking into darkness as I crouched lower among the bushes and peered out with eyes which doubtless resembled those of a frightened bird. Never hare in its form felt more of a flutter at the heart than I experienced as those screeching, and yet savage, voices drew nearer and nearer. I did not understand French, but if I had I trust I should not have understood the nature of the expressions those men were using. It must be remembered that at that time we were accustomed to think of a Frenchman as of a two-legged tiger—which we spelt with a y—and then perhaps the horror that thrilled me may be understood. Suddenly the vague terror was turned into reality, as between me and the dusky sky loomed forth a wild figure, then another and another, then a confused crowd.