We had, indeed, quite suddenly, as it seemed to me, reached the morning of Thursday.
THURSDAY.
THE SECOND DAY.
CHAPTER V.
DAVY JONES’ LOCKER.
The fear of the French returning suddenly shook the drowsiness out of my eyes. I gave them a final rub, then stumbled down the crooked steps after Nancy. How she could have guessed that it was now near dawn—as in our corner it was still pitch-dark—was a mystery to me; but probably the habit of waking up daily at an extremely early hour, as was the wont of milk-maids in those days, had accustomed her to know the time to a nicety.
We crept as quietly as we could down from our uncomfortable hiding-place, so stiff and cramped that we could only move with difficulty, and every bone made its particular position known with great accuracy, even to us who were totally unacquainted with anatomy. Then we carefully reconnoitred our situation.
As far as we could see, looking through the church windows on every side, we gazed only into the dim dusk of early morning into a lifeless world. No little bird as yet sent up his morning song; there were no sheep or cattle to be seen, their lawful owners or the invaders having driven them off to securer quarters or to sudden death, as the case might be. The church itself, after the late uproar, seemed very silent now; the fire had quickly died down, smothered by the pillow; only the heavy smell of smoke remained to prove that the wild doings of the night had not been a terrifying dream.
We crept along to the leper’s hole, using the other end of it now; for the unfortunate outcasts of former days had gazed through the tube into the church, while we unhappy fugitives looked warily from the interior into the porch, to see if haply some blue-coated soldier might have been left there on guard. But if this had been the case he had certainly declined to stay, which was not unlikely considering the lax discipline, or, rather, total want of discipline, which prevailed in the French force. At all events, the porch was empty.
So after a little getting behind each other and a slight backwardness in going forward, owing more to uncertainty of light than natural timidity, at last we ventured out boldly into the porch, and took a good look, our necks stretched out over the churchyard and round the country. The former seemed silent and deserted, the tombstones looming darkly into dim twilight, which still lay heavy on the land; nor could we even discern any sound of snoring. Carnunda was crowned with fires and thronged with soldiers, but it was not very near, and we thought we might slip away unnoticed. So, cautiously we closed the door behind us, and fared forth. The porch lay to the south of the church; we were stealing round the building to the north, or seaward side, as being further removed from Carnunda, when we were stopped by a sudden shout, proceeding apparently from the air above us. Our hearts stood still and our blood froze with terror—at least, I know mine did, and Nancy turned an ashy white in the grey dawn. In an instant we looked up to the place from which our enemy had spied us—the roof of the church, where he had been stationed as a sentinel. He sat astride on the ridge, which could be easily gained by means of a flight of steps, made on the outside of the roof, as a look-out place from which to signal to those at sea; but never designed for such a purpose as the present. The discipline had not been so lax as we hoped. For a moment we were stupefied, wishing only that one of the graves would open and take us in. Then we took to our heels. Down came the Frenchman clattering over the roof of the church, from the edge of which he dropped to the ground, only a distance of eight or nine feet; then he came full cry after us. His shouts had attracted the attention of a couple of his fellows, who were strolling along the cliffs in search of what they could devour, or, still better, drink. They joined the chase instantly, and all three came full tear after Nancy and myself, who had headed straight for the cliffs, as one of our own foxes would have done, though what we were to do when we gained them save plunge into the sea we knew not. However, we were not fated to gain them just at present, for one of the Frenchmen had outrun Nancy, whose limbs were still cramped, and who was weary from want of rest and sleep. I was stiff and tired too, but fear of the French made me fly, and would have done so I think had I been doubled up by rheumatism. However, though Nan was caught, and warned me of her disaster by a shrill scream, I am glad to say she preserved her usual Welsh spirit, as she plainly showed by fetching the Frenchman a sounding box on the ear. I hesitated what to do, divided between fear of the French and the desire of standing by my friend. I am glad to say I had advanced a few steps towards an attempt at rescue, when some dark body rushed past me in the dawning light, and ere I could even exclaim, the Frenchman lay flat on the ground. The other two, half drunk, and wholly stupefied, perceiving that things were going somewhat crookedly, departed as quickly as they could, making for the camp at Carnunda. Our rescuer had a mind to follow them, but Ann laid a restraining hand upon his arm.
“Oh, Dio bach,” [115] she said, “I am glad to see you this time, if I never was before.”