Roy

"Ay, no need to assure you of that. I shall see you soon again."

He lifted his hat, and as they parted, going different ways, Mrs. Bryce with a swift movement placed herself in the path of the General. His hat was again courteously raised, and the penetrating eyes met hers.

"Pray, sir—I entreat of you—pardon my boldness. I have not yet the supreme honour of your acquaintance. But, if I am not strangely in error, your name, sir, is—"

"John Moore, madam."

Mrs. Bryce sank to the ground in a profound reverence, and Molly dipped a neat little curtsey in her wake.

"Sir, it is the proudest moment of my life. That I should be vouchsafed the distinction of speaking with our most famous General! But excuse my boldness, sir. You are acquainted with my young friends, Captain Ivor and Mr. Jack Keene. And my husband, Mr. Bryce, has had the honour of a word with you. I have hitherto been less fortunate, though I too have been introduced to your excellent mother, Mrs. Moore, upon whom I have taken the liberty of calling."

The enthusiastic lady failed to realise that, while to her he was one of the foremost men living, she to him was no more than an unknown item in a population of seventeen millions. General Moore listened with most polite gravity, but the glimmer of an amused smile struggling for the mastery might have been detected.

"Sir, if you would graciously permit me to shake hands with one to whom my country owes a heavy debt of gratitude—"

The luminous smile broke into open sunshine. Handshaking was not then so common as it is now between slight acquaintances, but as a matter of course his hand was at once held out.

"You honour me greatly, madam, and I am sincerely grateful. But I fear you overestimate my services. I have but sought to do my duty."

Mrs. Bryce curtseyed profoundly again.

"I may not venture to detain you, sir. You are doubtless much occupied. But none can fail to know that General Moore has fought more often and more gallantly for his country than any other general of our day. I thank you most gratefully, sir, for the honour you have done me."

"On the contrary, ma'am, 'tis I who am honoured by your kind attention."

"Nay, sir, nay, that is but a fiction of speech. I shall never, sir, to my dying day be oblivious of this hour. And truly I hope that I have not seen General Moore for the last time."

Mrs. Bryce trod upon air the rest of the morning.

CHAPTER VII

PRISONERS OF WAR

COLONEL BARON might not confess the fact in so many words, but before he had been three days in Paris he sorely regretted his own action in taking Roy across the Channel.

When Roy was first taken ill—after ailing for a day or two—the doctor, hastily called in, at once pronounced him to be probably sickening for that fell disease which for centuries had held the world in a thraldom of terror. Not without reason. Up to the close of the eighteenth century nearly half a million of people had died in Europe every year of smallpox.

Mrs. Baron was a fond and tender mother, yet when first that dread word left the doctor's lips, even she fled in horror from the sick-room. From infancy she had been used to admiration, and she knew too well to what a mockery of the human face many a lovelier countenance than hers was reduced.

Soon, ashamed of herself, she rallied, and would have returned; but this the Colonel sternly prohibited.

The people of the hotel, in sheer dismay, insisted on Roy's instant removal. The question was—where could he go? Then it was that Ivor came to the rescue, He had had smallpox. He was not only safe, but also experienced, having nursed a friend through the complaint. He would take charge of the boy himself, allowing none other to enter the room. His steady manner and cheerful face brought comfort to everybody.

Consulting with the hotel people, he heard of a M. and Mme. de Bertrand living near, who might be willing to receive him and Roy. They and their servant had been inoculated, and were safe. Since they were members of the old lesser noblesse, and had lost heavily in Revolution times, they might be glad thus to make a little money.

The matter was speedily arranged, and Roy was conveyed thither wrapped in blankets, already much too ill to care what might be done with him. Colonel and Mrs. Baron remained at the hotel, to endure a long agony of suspense.

As days passed, it appeared that no one else had caught the disease, and Roy was found to have it mildly. It was not a case of the awful "confluent" smallpox, but of the simple "discrete" kind. There was a good deal of fever, and at times he wandered, calling for "Molly," but more often he was dull and stupefied, saying little.

Perhaps nobody who had seen Denham Ivor only in society or on parade would have singled him out as likely to be a good nurse. A modern trained nurse would have found much to complain of in his methods, and not a little to arouse her laughter. Many of his arrangements were highly masculine: the room was never in order; and whatever he used he commonly plumped down in the most unlikely places.

But his patience and attention never failed; he never forgot essentials; he never seemed to think of himself or to require rest. Day after day he stayed in that upstairs room, only once in the twenty-four hours going out for a short walk, that he might report Roy's condition to Colonel Baron, meeting the latter, and standing a few yards from him. If Roy was able to get a short sleep, Denham used that opportunity to do the same; but in some mysterious way he always contrived to be awake before Roy. His handsome bronzed face grew less bronzed with the confinement and lack of exercise.

No one beside himself and the doctor entered the room, except a wizened old Frenchwoman, herself frightful from the same dire disease, who was hired to come in each morning, while Ivor was out, that she might put things straight.

Then tokens of improvement began, and Colonel Baron sent a letter home which cheered Molly's heart. But later violent inflammation of one ear set in. For days and nights the boy suffered tortures, and sleep was impossible for him or for his attendant. Roy in his weakness sometimes cried bitterly with the pain, always begging that Molly might never be told. "She'd think me so girlish," he said, while tears rolled down his thin cheeks, marked by half a dozen red pits.

In the midst of this trouble, a terrible blow fell upon Ivor, in the shape of a stern official notice, desiring him to consider himself a prisoner of war, and at once to render his parole.

Ivor was commonly a calm-mannered man, with that quietness which means the determined holding down of a far from placid nature. Some words of fierce wrath broke from him that day. He was compelled to go and give his parole, infection or no infection; and indignant utterances were exchanged between him and Colonel Baron, whom he chanced to meet on the same errand. Then he had to hasten back to the boy, with a heavy weight at his heart.

It meant to Ivor, not only indefinite separation from Polly, but also a complete deadlock in his military career.

He was passionately attached to Polly. He was not less ardently attached to his Chief. If one half of his spare thoughts was given to a future with Polly for his wife, the other half was given to a future of campaigning under Moore.

Had imprisonment come in the ordinary way, through reverse or capture in actual warfare, he would have borne it more easily. The sense of injustice rankled. He foresaw, too, the complications likely to arise, and the possibility of long delay in the exchange of prisoners. As he patiently tended the boy, his brain went round at the thought of his position, and that of Colonel Baron.

Three or four more days of strain, and then the abscess in the ear broke, causing speedy relief. The first thing Roy did was to fall into a profound sleep. When he woke up, feeling much better, his murmur was as usual for "Den!" No answer came.

He took a look round. The light from the window was growing dim, and the pain in his ear had vanished. Denham, near at hand, was leaning back in the only pretence at an easy-chair which the room held. His head rested against the wall, and he seemed to be heavily asleep.

Boys of twelve are not always very thoughtful about other people, but an odd feeling came over Roy, as he noted the fine-looking young soldier in that attitude of utter weariness. Through his illness he had actually never once seen Ivor asleep till now.

"He must be tired, I'm sure. But I wish he'd wake."

The door opened slowly, and Roy's eyes grew round with surprise. Nobody entered this infected place, as he knew, except Ivor, the doctor, and the old woman. This newcomer stepped quietly up to the bed. She was quite a girl, perhaps two or three years older than Polly. She was very slight, with a neatly-fitting dress. The lighted candle in her hand threw a glow upon her face. It was a sweet face, delicate and gentle, and it would have been exceedingly pretty but for the evident ravages of a long-past attack of smallpox. There were no "pits" on her skin, but a certain soft roughness marked the whole, as if it had once been closely covered with pits. The face was pale, its features were even, short black hair curled over a wide forehead, and the dark eyes were full of sadness.

Roy put out his hand involuntarily, only to snatch it back.

"I forgot. Den told me I must not touch anybody except him—not even that ugly old woman. I'm so thirsty. I wish he'd wake up."

"Pauvre enfant!" She went to the table and brought a glass of milk, which Roy drank eagerly. Then she smoothed his bedclothes.

"But you ought not, you know," observed Roy's weak voice. "You might catch the smallpox. Den would make you go. Can you talk English?"

"Yes, I can talk English." She said the words in foreign style, with slow distinctness, but with a pure intonation. "I learnt English in your country. Yes, I have been there for three or four years. Monsieur votre frère—your brother—il a l'air très fatigué."

"Den isn't really my brother, only he's just like one. He's just Den, you know—Captain Denham Ivor, of His Majesty's Guards. He hasn't been to sleep for ever so long, and that's why he is tired. My ear has been awfully bad, for days and days. And Den was always here."

The girl left Roy, and went closer to the sleeping man. He remained motionless, the eyes closed, a slight dew of exhaustion on the brow, the face extremely pale. She sheltered the light from his eyes with her hand, and, turning away, began putting things straight. A few touches altered wondrously the look of the whole room. Roy lay and watched her.

"What's your name?" he asked. "Are you M. de Bertrand's daughter? I'm deaf still, so don't whisper."

"No. I am Lucille de St. Roques." She came near, not to have to raise her voice, and Roy again shrank from her. "It does not matter. I have had the complaint, and I do not fear."

"I wonder where your home is."

"Ah,—for that, I have not now a true home. Cependant, I have kind friends at Verdun, where I live. I am but just come here—unexpected."

"And have you a father and mother in that place—Ver—something?" Little dreamt Roy how familiar a name it would become in a few months!

"Verdun. My father and mother they were of the old noblesse, and—hélas!—thirteen years ago, in the Revolution, they were guillotined."

"O I say, how horrid!" exclaimed Roy. "Why, you must have been quite a little thing!"

"I was not yet eight years old. I was in prison with them, many many weeks, before they went out to die."

Ivor woke suddenly and stood up, leaning against the solid four-poster, since the room went round with him. He saw a girlish figure, and vaguely felt that she had no business there.

"Do not make so great haste. Will you not rest a little longer?" a kind voice said, and a soft hand came on his wrist.

"But indeed, mademoiselle, you must go away at once," he urged earnestly. "It is smallpox. Pray, go. You will take the infection."

"But me, I do not intend to go," she replied cheerfully, with her pretty foreign accent. "You need not be afraid for me, monsieur. See—I have had it. I am not in danger—not at all. You are fatigué—n'est-ce pas? It has been a long nursing—yes, so I have heard. When did you take food last?"

Denham confessed that he had not eaten for some time; he had not been hungry. Well, perhaps he was a trifle fatigué; but 'twas nothing—nothing at all. He was ready now for anything. If mademoiselle would only not put herself in danger! By way of showing his readiness, he made a movement forward; but he was forced to sit hastily down, resting his forehead on his hand. The long strain had told upon even his vigorous constitution.

"Ah!—C'est ca!" she murmured. "But you will be the better, monsieur, for a cup of coffee."

Ivor had no choice but to yield, and she moved daintily about, making such coffee as only a Frenchwoman can, and bringing it presently to his side.

"This is not right," he protested. "I cannot allow you to wait upon me, mademoiselle!"

She would listen to no remonstrances, however; and when he had disposed of it, she insisted that he should lie down on a couch in the small adjoining room, while she undertook to look after Roy. She had her friends' permission, she said, not explaining that she had refused to be forbidden; and monsieur in his present state could do no more. How long was it since he had slept? Ah, doubtless some days!

Ivor gave in, after much resistance, and in ten minutes he was again heavily asleep. Nature at last claimed her due.

When he woke, after several hours' unbroken rest, he was another man. Roy seemed much better; the doctor had paid a visit, and was gone; the room could scarcely be recognised as the same; and Ivor warmly expressed his gratitude, wondering as he did so at Lucille's look of steady sadness. She insisted on coming the next day, that he might rest and have an hour's walk.

"Isn't she jolly?" exclaimed Roy, when the door closed behind her. "She has told me lots of things while you were asleep. Only think, her father and mother were both guillotined! Both of them had their heads cut off. And they hadn't done one single thing to make them deserve it. They were awfully good and kind to everybody, she says. And she was only a little girl then; and when they were dead, somebody took her away to England, and she was there three or four years. And then she came back to France, and she lives with some people at a place called Verdun. She says they give her a home, and she works for them. And she would like to go to England again some day."

But Lucille de St. Roques had not told Roy her more recent sorrow. She let it out to Captain Ivor a day or two later. Only one year before this date she had become engaged to young Théodore de Bertrand, son of the old couple downstairs, and three months later he had been drawn for the conscription. No use to plead that he was practically an only son, since the second son, Jacques, was a ne'er-do-weel, who had taken himself off nobody knew whither. More soldiers were wanted by the First Consul for his schemes of foreign conquest, and young De Bertrand had to go. Scarcely four months after his departure news came that he had been shot in a sortie in the Low Countries. Large tears filled Lucille's eyes, and dropped slowly.

"Ah! So many more!" she said. "Thousands—thousands—called upon to be slain for nothing! Not for their country, but for the ambition of one bad man. It makes no difference, monsieur, that they love not the usurper. My Théodore was of the Royalist party, yet he had to go. And the poor old father and mother—they are left without one son in their old age!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE THREATENED INVASION

THERE is a good deal of variety in the different accounts as to the number of British subjects who actually suffered arrest in French dominions on the breaking out of the war. Some estimates amount to as high a figure as ten thousand; but these seem to have made no allowance for the rapid homeward rush just at the last. Other estimates give only a few hundreds, belonging chiefly to the upper ranks of society.

But indeed all classes were included. Not only officers in the Army and Navy, but lawyers, doctors, clergymen, men of rank, men of business, artisans, English residents abroad, all alike had the notice of arrest served upon them. All alike were either thrown into prison, or, if gentlemen, were ordered immediately to constitute themselves prisoners of war upon parole, with the alternative of becoming prisoners of war in strict confinement.

The mass of those détenus who were allowed to be upon their parole had to go to Fontainebleau; and thither Colonel and Mrs. Baron betook themselves. On the score of danger to others from infection, a slight delay was permitted to Ivor, still in charge of Roy.

The question had at once arisen whether Mrs. Baron should not be sent to England with her boy as soon as he should be fit to travel. Women were, at least in theory, free to go where they would, provided only that they could obtain passports. But Mrs. Baron refused to consider any such proposal. She could not and would not be separated from her husband. "Of course I shall go with him to Fontainebleau," she said decisively. "It cannot be for long. Roy must come to us there. It only means leaving his schooling for a quarter of a year. He will not be strong enough for work at present; and something is sure to be arranged soon. Then we shall all go home together."

The general opinion among friends in England was that Roy would certainly be sent across the Channel so soon as possible. Yet there were some who doubted. Mrs. Baron was known to be a mother perhaps more fond than wise; and it seemed conceivable that she might decline to part with him.

This unlooked-for move of Napoleon's caused a burning outburst of indignation throughout the length and breadth of England; and newspapers vied one with another in wrathful condemnation of his "unmannerly violation of the laws of hospitality."

War once begun was carried on with energy by both the British and the French. As a first step, Napoleon did his best to damage English commerce by closing Continental markets against her—supremely careless of the suffering which he inflicted on his own friends and subjects. But at this particular game England was the better of the two.

Ironclads were then unknown; and though the great three-deckers, with their seventy or a hundred guns apiece, could not be built in a day, yet war-vessels were of every description, from three-deckers down to merchant-ships, hastily fitted with a few guns, and sent forth to do their best. In a short time Great Britain had about five hundred war-vessels, with which she swept the seas, recaptured such Colonies as had been yielded to France by the Treaty of Amiens, blockaded harbours in countries subject to the First Consul, and made descents upon their ports, carrying off prizes in the very teeth of French guns and fortifications.

Napoleon's next move was definitely to announce his intention of invading England, of conquering the country, and of making it into a Province of France.

This was a feat more easily talked of than accomplished. Preparations, however, were pushed forward on a great scale. Huge flotillas of flat-bottomed boats, to act as transport for the invading army, were collected at various places, more especially at Boulogne; and at the latter spot a camp was formed of between one and two hundred thousand soldiers, to be in readiness for the moment of action. Also a strong fleet of French men-of-war was being prepared, to convoy the transports across the Channel.

Though no true-hearted Englishman believed for a moment in the possibility of his country becoming a French Province, all knew that the threatened invasion might take place.

An extraordinary burst of enthusiasm, throughout the whole country, was the immediate response to Napoleon's threat.

Large supplies of money were freely voted and given. The regular Army was increased, and the Militia was called out; while a Volunteer force sprang into being with such rapidity that it soon numbered about four hundred thousand men.

These citizen-soldiers, as it was the fashion to call them, were scattered all over the country, each place having its own corps. But the regular troops, drawn from various parts, were chiefly stationed where the danger seemed to be the more pressing, between London and the south coast—Sir David Dundas being in command.

Along the shores were erected batteries and martello towers—many of which remain to this day. And since Boulogne was the headquarters of the French army of invasion, an advanced corps was placed on the opposite coast, near Sandgate, under General Moore, in readiness to repel the first onslaught.

There Moore occupied his time in such splendid training of the regiments under his control, that throughout the long years of the Peninsular War, after he himself had passed away, the stamp of his spirit rested upon them, the impress of his enthusiasm and of his magnificent discipline made them the foremost soldiers in the British Army. Among these were the regiments which, as "The Reserve," bore the brunt of the fighting in Moore's famous "Retreat," and which were known in Spain and at Waterloo as Wellington's invincible "Light Brigade." Wellington used those regiments for the saving of Europe; but Moore made and tempered the weapon which was to be wielded by Wellington.

To the delight of Jack Keene, an opportunity offered itself whereby he might effect an exchange into one of the Shorncliffe regiments.

His semi-worshipping admiration for Moore was a reflection, an echo, of Ivor's deeper devotion. As yet he had seen little of the General, having met him but a few times. But long before they came together he had cherished a warm interest in the man—an interest awakened first in boyish days by Ivor's vivid descriptions of campaigning in the West Indies; descriptions of which Moore was always the chief figure. Jack had seized with avidity upon all such details.

When at length the two met, he could feel no wonder at Ivor's intense and reverent love for Moore. He counted himself thenceforward ready to live or to die for him, and one day in a fit of confidence he said so to Polly.

"Nay, Jack; live for him. Do not wish to die for him," pleaded Polly. "That will be the best."

Jack was not so sure. He could not forget a story told him long before by Ivor, of a certain heroic Guardsman in the West Indies—a man who had flung himself between Moore and the musket which was aimed pointblank at the latter, thus giving his life for that of his officer. But it was not needful for Jack to explain how readily he would do the same. He merely smiled, and remarked, "In all England there is no other his equal. Of that I am assured."

To Jack's disappointment General Moore had been summoned away from Bath on important duty; and intercourse between them came for the moment to a close. The young subaltern, however, found it possible to pursue acquaintance with the General's mother and sister; and gentle old Mrs. Moore had a great deal to say about this most idolised son of hers, where she found a sympathetic listener. Few listeners could have been more sympathetic than Jack Keene, who never grew tired of the subject. Mrs. Moore had other sons besides the General; but it was noticed that when she referred to him he was always distinctively—"My son," —not "My eldest son," nor "My son, John." This did not touch the close friendship between Moore and his brothers, one of whom was a Naval officer of mark.

Through these summer weeks of 1803 Polly was longing for Captain Ivor to come home. It was sad to think of him as a prisoner, forced to stay in a foreign land. She knew too that any day Jack might be ordered off; and one day, as she had feared, he rushed in, to tell them that he would be leaving immediately for Shorncliffe Camp, there to await Napoleon's first attempt to land on English soil.

The news was less a matter for congratulation to them than to Jack himself. At Sandgate he would be in the very forefront of the peril which threatened the land. Mrs. Fairbank had to rub her large horn spectacles more than once; and she was disposed to blame Jack for not referring the question to herself, before he accepted the offer of an exchange. Molly looked curiously at Jack, and asked, "Are you glad to say good-bye to us all?"

"Not glad to say good-bye, but glad to be going. People must say good-bye sometimes, Molly. And I shall be fighting under the best and bravest man that ever lived. Cannot you understand that?"

Polly broke out before Molly could reply. "Yes, indeed, Molly and I understand. You would be no true soldier, did you not long to be in the forefront. Jack, she and I have but this morning learned by heart a verse of Mr. Walter Scott's which 'tis said he has but just writ. Molly, you shall say the verse to Jack, for they are brave words. Hold up your head, and speak out, dear, as an Englishwoman should."

Molly obeyed, and spouted with considerable effect:

"'If ever breath of British gale
   Shall fan the tri-colour,
  Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul and red with blood,
   Pollute our happy shore,—
  Then farewell home, and farewell friends,—
  Adieu, each tender tie!
     Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
     Where charging squadrons furious ride,
   To conquer, or to die!'"

"Come, that is good. That was well said. And you will both bid me God-speed. And when Napoleon is beaten, and old England is once again in safety,—why, then I will return, ma'am, to sit in the chimney-corner!"

"Yes, yes, Jack,—yes, my dear boy." Mrs. Fairbank, as always when agitated, knitted at railway speed. "You will do your duty in any case. Of that I am convinced. And General Moore will be a good friend to you."

Jack detected signs of a possible breakdown, and he stood up.

"Come, Polly,—come, Molly. There is time for a turn in the Pump Room. You do not dine till half-past three; and my grandmother will be none the worse for a quiet hour."

Molly looked anxiously for leave, and then flew to get ready. A walk with Jack was always a treat. They entered the old Pump Room together, finding there, as usual, a large assemblage of gaily-dressed ladies and fashionable gentlemen; some walking about, some lounging on seats.

The ladies wore short-waisted gowns of white or figured muslin, with short cloaks or mantles of bright hues, or short spencers of silk or coloured crape, and great feathered hats or bonnets, and plenty of large gilt and silver buttons. Many of the gentlemen were in tights and long flowered waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes, while others wore blue coats with brass buttons. Pigtails too might still be seen, though soon to be discontinued.

Jack and the two girls came all at once face to face with Mrs. Bryce, Admiral Peirce being her attendant-cavalier.

Both were immensely interested to hear Jack's news, how in less than a week he would be off to Sandgate, there to be under the command of General Moore, and—as Jack hoped—to be called upon to bear the first brunt of Napoleon's expected invasion.

"Not you, my dear sir," objected the Admiral, with a beaming face. "Before ever Boney reaches British shores, depend on 't he'll have to render a good account of himself to our ships of war. I doubt me, Boney won't contrive to give our Navy the slip."

Jack had no wish to get into a discussion. "Well, sir, well, our Navy and our Army too will both of them do their best," he said. "But 'twould be a foolish fellow who should trust all his eggs in one basket, as the saying is. And should, by any chance, the slip be given, and Boney arrive on our shores, why then the Army will make him render his account fairly! Has anybody seen Mrs. Moore, ma'am?" And he turned to Mrs. Bryce.

Mrs. Bryce had not the least intention of parting hastily with her second cavalier. To walk about the Pump Room in view of all her Bath acquaintances, with a gentleman on either side, was highly desirable. So Polly and Molly were adroitly dropped behind, and she set off.

"If not Mrs. Moore, Jack, I have seen some one else of passable interest," she remarked. "Who think you that can be? Nay, I protest, you shall stay, and you shall guess. Who can it have been?" She flirted her fan at him.

Jack was quite unable to imagine. "Unless it might chance to be Miss Moore," he suggested as a happy thought.

"Miss Jane Moore—the General's sister? No, sir, no—no Moore at all. Yet a 'Jane' notwithstanding. Her name is Miss Jane Austen—a well-bred young woman, I do assure you, who lives with her parents and sister at 4 Sydney Place, in the Green Park Buildings. And only to think—the good lady has writ a book which may by chance one day be printed. Yes, indeed, and it is so, I do declare. To think of that, my dear Jack! A whole actual book, 'tis said, written and finished, and bought from Miss Jane Austen by one of our Bath booksellers, for the sum of ten pounds. I'm on no account to divulge the name of the bookseller; for now he's done his bargain, he's much in doubt if ever the tale will pay him for the expense of printing it. 'Tis a story of the name of some sort of Abbey. But if you come across the good lady, Miss Jane Austen herself, you may not tell her one word of what I have told to you, for 'tis a solemn secret from everybody. 'Twas told my husband in strictest confidence, and if I had not wormed it out of him—Ah! ha! Jack, wait till you get a wife, and then you'll not smile on that side of your mouth."

"I have found my bride, ma'am. 'Tis my Profession," declared Jack, in a manner which nowadays would be looked upon as grandiloquent, but which in those days was quite the right thing for an enthusiastic young man.

"Nay, nay, nothing of the sort, my dear sir! Wait a while, and you'll find your affections engaged in another fashion. Can you be so hard-hearted as to hold out even now, in the face of all this youth and elegance? See, there goes a bewitching young woman; though 'tis true she wears a shocking unbecoming gown. But she's a prodigious favourite, and she can dance as tolerable a minuet as any young female present. Then there's young Susie yonder—something of a hoyden, maybe, and calls herself 'a dasher,' but uncommonly pretty, and prodigiously good spirits. And if you'd sooner have a bluestocking, why, I've but to introduce you to Miss Jane Austen herself."

"And if I have no sort of wish for none of these good people, madam?" demanded Jack, dropping involuntarily into the fashionable jargon of the day, so much affected by Mrs. Bryce.

"Why, then, Jack, I'll declare you are no true cavalier, nor worthy of your profession," smartly responded the good lady.

CHAPTER IX

OUR HERO

THOUGH the name of John Moore is inscribed in letters of blood upon the deathless roll of our National Heroes, not so much is known about him by people in general as ought to be known. A few words as to his past life may not be out of place.

His father, a Scots physician of eminence, and also a successful author, had been appointed guardian and travelling-companion to the young Duke of Hamilton; and during "Jack's" boyhood, from the age of about ten to fifteen, the latter shared in the Continental travels of Dr. Moore and his ward. The doctor showed himself well fitted for the trust reposed in him, while his son from the first shone as a star in whatever circle he moved.

As a child John Moore was impulsive, hasty-tempered, and addicted to fighting; but he early learned self-control, and he was of a remarkably noble and generous disposition. By the age of fourteen he had become a fascinating young fellow, with a face of manly beauty, a daring temper, and a growing passion for the Army. Already he was a good linguist, and an adept at both riding and fencing. About this time, when in the course of their travels the three went to Vienna, the Emperor of Austria definitely offered to take the brilliant boy into his service, promising rapid promotion. But Moore was far too ardent a patriot to serve in any Army save that of his own country.

Dr. Moore, writing to his wife, described his son affectionately as "attentive, active, and brave," with "great good sense," and "the most beautiful and graceful boy imaginable;" adding, "Jack does not stoop as the Duke, but will have a good carriage; and though he is so very pretty, he has not the least tendency to be a coxcomb." Not long after, again he wrote with fatherly pride: "Never was a creature less spoiled than your son by all the great people who have caressed him, nor by all the uncommon fine situations he has been in. Though his manner is manly and noble, yet it is simple, and he assumes no airs. He is a charming youth. I wish you had him in your arms." Often must this most loving of mothers have wished the same, while her son was visiting half the Courts of Europe.

At the age of fifteen John became Ensign in the first Regiment, and a few months later he wrote of it as "one of the best regiments in the service ... There is no such thing as either drinking or gambling going on."

In 1777 he joined the Duke of Hamilton's regiment, and went out to Nova Scotia, where he had hard fighting, and gained much credit for personal prowess.

Before the close of 1783 peace was proclaimed between Great Britain and her four enemies, France, Spain, Holland, and the United States. Though Britain in those days had much less than half her present population, she was wont most cheerfully to engage in war with three or four nations at one and the same time, with no misgivings as to results.

The "Hamilton Regiment" being disbanded, Captain Moore, then twenty-three years old, went home to live with his parents on half-pay—the doctor by this time having a London practice. Moore studied hard, and was much in society, being a universal favourite. For a while he represented four Scots burghs in Parliament, though with a stipulation on his part that he should be free always to follow his own judgment. Moore never became in the narrower sense a party man. He had his own firm convictions, but he made friends on all sides. He fought for country, not for party.

In 1737 he once more gladly forsook civil for military duties. A year later, when he had rejoined his old regiment, the 51st, at Cork, a lifelong friendship sprang up between him and young Ensign Anderson. From that time the two were almost inseparable companions.

By this date Moore was known as a disciplinarian of unusual power, indulgent when he might safely be so, but inflexible in enforcing strict obedience. In an age when hard drinking was the fashion, he set his face like a flint against habits of intemperance among officers and men; and in an age when hard swearing was the "mode," strong expressions were never heard from his lips.

In 1792 he was ordered to Malta; and two years later, the peace having already ended, he was fighting the French in Corsica. Two or three years later still, he was made Brigadier-General by the King and the Duke of York, and was despatched to the West Indies, to serve under Abercromby. Sir Charles Stuart, while in command at Sicily, had become one of his intimate friends; and Abercromby now became another. The Duke of York and Pitt, from the time of his seat in Parliament, had been also among the long list of those warmly attached to him. Wherever Moore went he made friends for life.

It was at this period, when Moore was in the West Indies, that Ivor, then a subaltern, was first thrown under his captivating influence.

As usual, opportunities occurred for the display of individual bravery, in which Moore always shone; and in those days of hard fighting Ivor too had won laurels and promotion. Moore's influence over the younger officers was unrivalled; and many a one besides Ivor could look back, long after, with the knowledge that Moore had been the making of him, not only as a soldier but as a man. He shaped the characters of those with whom he had to do.

When St. Lucia had been wrested from the French, Moore was appointed Commandant and Governor of the Island: no easy post, for the blacks were fearfully barbarous in their methods of warfare. After being twice laid low by desperate attacks of yellow fever, ill though Moore could be spared, he had to be sent home.

He reached England a mere wreck of his former self; but little rest could in those days be allowed to Britain's gallant sons. He had a short time with those whom he loved best—with the mother especially, who was more to him than all the world beside. Then he was again ordered off; first to survey the eastern coast, in preparation for a threatened French invasion; afterward against Irish rebels in our unquiet sister isle. There he was prostrated anew by severe illness; there he made fresh friends; there once more he was found an invaluable helper by those in authority.

From Ireland he was ordered to Holland, where Abercromby stood imperatively in need of him. Ten thousand British troops had been sent, not to fight the Dutch, but to rescue them from the French yoke. On the 2nd of October, Moore, in the course of five hours' determined fighting, received two wounds. The first he ignored. The second felled him to the ground; and he would have been made prisoner, but that his men carried him off.

Ivor had accompanied him to Holland; and when, in the year 1800, the memorable Expedition to Egypt took place, Moore being still under his old commander, Abercromby, Ivor to his delight was still under Moore.

In a desperate action, on the 20th of March, Moore was a second time wounded in the leg, and as before he fought on, disregarding it. Abercromby too was shot in the thigh, and did not even mention the fact until the victory was won. The two friends never met again; for Abercromby died of his wound before Moore was able to go to him.

On the Peace of Amiens, Moore returned to England, in time to see his father, who was dying of old age and heart disease. The doctor's property was left between his wife and his six children; and Moore, not content with his mother's jointure, insisted on giving her an additional annuity.

Thus for years the name of John Moore had been incessantly before the British public, as the bravest of the brave; having become by this time the one name, before any other save that of Nelson, to which in the hour of peril his countrymen would turn.

What was it about this remarkable man which so riveted the hearts of others to him? Not the hearts of women only, though in truth his mother and sister idolised him. But vigorous men, stern soldiers, poured upon him a very passion of devotion. Denham Ivor was one, Jack Keene was another, among scores who looked upon John Moore as the living embodiment of all that a soldier and a gentleman ought to be, who loved him with unbounded ardour.

Buonaparte was worshipped, and was followed unto death by his soldiers, as a great captain. Moore, in addition to being so followed, was loved as a man, with that love which men only give to strong men, and not to many among them.

Wherever Moore turned, he found this love. His own brothers lavished it upon him. The Duke of Hamilton was his fervent friend for life. Anderson was to him as Jonathan to David. The three gallant Napiers, Charles, George, and William, adored him. His French servant, Francois, forgot home and country for his sake. Private soldiers were ready to rush upon certain death, if so they might save his life. Officers of rank, working with him, became almost inevitably his personal friends. The younger officers, under his command and training, so caught the infection of his high spirit, so responded to the influence of "their hero," that by dozens in after years they became prominent characters in the Army and leaders in the Nation. He has been truly called "a king among men."

No doubt his striking personal appearance, his indescribable charm of manner, perhaps too his brilliant and witty conversational powers, had something to do with his influence. But those things which really lay at the foundation of this extraordinary control over others were, mainly, the force of his character, the vivid enthusiasm of his purpose, the loftiness of his ideals, the simple grandeur of his life.

He had his enemies. No truly great man, who does not stoop to pander to the littlenesses of little men, ever fails to make some enemies. It could not be otherwise. Jealousy alone was sure to turn some against him. Moreover, his inviolable integrity, his blameless name, the splendid disdain with which he spurned everything false and mean—such qualities as these in Moore made some of a baser type turn from and even turn against one who was so infinitely more noble than themselves. But to men of a higher and purer stamp Moore was, as the Bayard of the Middle Ages had been to a former generation, a knight sans peur et sans reproche, a model upon which they might seek to shape themselves.

With Ivor, as with many another, to have known Moore was to have been imbued for life with new aims, new ideals, new views of duty, new thoughts of self-abnegation. Not so much from what John Moore might here or there have said, as from what he always was. To be under the man was in itself an inspiration.

Soon after Jack's departure for Sandgate, Admiral Peirce was called away on duty; and the Bryces decided to flit eastward. Mrs. Bryce, who loved sensation, talked of a visit to Folkestone, a tiny watering-place in those days, but within reach of Sandgate and of Moore's camp at Shorncliffe; and she offered to take Polly with her. Polly had kept up bravely under her separation from Ivor; but her pretty face had lost some of its colour, and the change might do her good. Polly of course was charmed. Who would not have been in her place? She would see Jack again, also Jack's Commander and England's Hero, General Moore. She would be in the thick of all that was going on, and would learn the news of the hour at first-hand.

So the Bryces and Polly went, and Molly was left behind with old Mrs. Fairbank. Nobody saw aught to object to in the arrangement; and Molly said nothing. But in later years she often looked back with a shudder to those autumn weeks.

She had none with her by whom she was understood, or to whom she could freely talk. She was cut off from her father, from her mother, from her twin, from Polly and from Jack. News from the prisoners arrived very seldom, and plenty of room was left for Molly's childish imagination to bring her misery.

Those were days of far severer imprisonment than these are; dungeons and chains being in constant use. Molly had heard enough, even in her short life, of fettered and half-starved captives, to cause her to be haunted by doleful visions as to the durance vile which Roy might have to endure.

In the daytime, when she was fully occupied, it was easier to take a cheerful view of life; but Molly's sufferings began with nightfall. Often she would start out of a restless sleep, fancying that she saw Roy in some noisome dungeon, with chains upon his wrists, while his grey eyes appealed to her pitifully for help. She would hide her face and sob; and in the midst of her woe would come the sound of the old watchman, shaking his rattle as he passed down the street, and singing out monotonously, "Past one o'clock, and a starlight night;" or, it might be, "Past three o'clock, and a rainy morning!"

Molly would listen, shivering, to the prolonged utterance; and sometimes she would wonder if the old watchman ever went to sleep. Then, as the voice died away, she would drop off herself; and when again she woke, she would be hugging her pillow, under a vague impression that she had Roy in her arms.

But of these troubled nights Molly said not a word to any human being. The only person whom she could have told was Polly, and Polly had gone away.

CHAPTER X

THE FRENCH FLEET SIGNALLED

MRS. BRYCE could seldom be happy for long in one place. Before the end of September she had decided to quit Folkestone for Sandgate. Polly was charmed, and Mr. Bryce made no serious objection.

"If Buonaparte should come, my dear, what then?" was all that he ventured to suggest; and Mrs. Bryce snapped her fingers at the First Consul.

"Let him come, if so it pleases him. Pray, Mr. Bryce, do you consider that we are bound to shape our course with a view to gratifying old Nap?" demanded the vivacious lady.

Mr. Bryce wondered privately what his wife's feelings would be, if one day a round shot from a French man-of-war should rush through the room in which she was seated. But to Sandgate they went, on a rainy autumn day, when the sea wailed dismally, and the wind howled more dismally still, and the lodgings which Mr. Bryce had managed to secure wore an aspect most dismal of all. Even Mrs. Bryce's spirits were affected by the state of the atmosphere.

Books in their possession were few, and had already been read. Jack failed to appear so soon as they had expected. Mr. Bryce sallied forth, despite the rain; but the ladies could not think of following his example. Mrs. Bryce in despair turned to some old volumes of the Gentleman's Magazine, lying in a corner; and in so doing, to her gratification, she fished out two or three recent numbers of the same serial.

"Ah, ha, my dear Polly, now we shall do," she declared cheerfully. "Now we may defy the elements, and you shall get on with your purse-netting, and I will find something to read aloud for your entertainment. I wonder much that Jack does not come."

"Jack is busy, or he would be here," Polly said confidently. Just as she had her half-netted blue silk purse nicely arranged between foot and knee, Mr. Bryce walked in, carrying letters,—at the sight of which Polly dropped her work, and started up.

"Nay, not from France. Nothing from France," Mr. Bryce said with quick understanding; and Polly returned to her seat languidly. "One from Bath for you, and one from Norfolk for my wife. Two letters in a day! You ladies may count yourselves fortunate."

Mr. Bryce disappeared anew, and Polly remarked, "My grandmother has written to me."

"Read it aloud, Polly. 'Twill serve before the Magazine," quoth Mrs. Bryce, and Polly complied, looking ahead, lest she should stumble upon any sentence meant only for herself. The letter ran as follows:

"Bath, Oct. 28, 1803."

   "MY DEAR POLLY,—Yours to Molly has very seriously disquieted my mind, I assure you. If General Moore, with his gᵗ experience considers that the French landing may be apprehended as likely soon to Take Place, 'tis sure the height of imprudence for you to remain in that neighbourhood, where the French Army, if it lands, will doubtless Pillage and Burn to the best of their Ability."

   "Nor does it appear to me, my dear Polly, that you will be greatly the better off in Lonⁿ, where certainly the Invading Army will immediately march, so soon as it has effected a Landing."

   "I am therefore about to Propose what seems to me the wiser plan for all of you. Which is, that you and Mrs. Bryce shou'd return again to Bath, without Delay, leaving Mr. Bryce, as Dou'tless he will desire, to take his proper share in the Defence of our Country. If Mrs. Bryce be willing to act according to this plan, I most gladly offer to her such Humble Accommodation as is in my power to bestow. The aspect of affairs is truly Alarming; and if it be seriously apprehended that Lonⁿ is like to be in greater danger of Bustle and Trouble than Bath, there is no Necessity for you all to remain in that part of England. If Mrs. Bryce can dispense for a while with the Good Table to which she is used, and can put up with more Humble Fare, then every friendly Accommodation in my power is at her Service."

   "Last Saturday there appear'd before the Market Place forty-three Blacks, who said they had been prisoners to the french, but had been retaken, and were come to offer themselves volunteers to King George. The Country men stared at them, and the women cried out. The next morning here arrived a coach-full of the same colour. They are all sent to Marlborough, how to be disposed of I don't know."

   "My love to Jack, who I hope will not be spoiled by his many friends,—alas, too frequently the case in these days of scarcity of Good Young Men. Molly is well and behaves herself."

   "Bath, it is expected, will soon be crowded with Irish Company. A great many large houses were engaged last week. The Bristol people think that, were the french to effect a landing on some of the Welsh coasts, they might soon expect to be troubled with them there and at Bath. Several meetings have been held on this subject. But 'tis the opinion of most that Lonⁿ lies in greater danger."

   "Yesterday was a solemn day for humiliation. The places of worship were well attended; and the Clergy here exerted themselves, I trust, to the best of their Abilitys."

   "May God graciously avert from Old England so great a Calamity as the presence of an Enemy upon her soil."

      "Adieu.—Your affectionate Grandmother,"

"C. FAIRBANK."

Mrs. Bryce pronounced the writer's mode of expression to be "vastly old-fashioned."

"But when you write, you may thank her all the same. Mrs. Fairbank means it kindly, and if I thought old Nap would come in truth—but 'tis all bluster and empty boasting. For my part, I put no sort of belief in any invasion of our shores. But you may inform her that I am sincerely grateful; and that, should occasion arise, I will not fail to avail myself of her hospitality."

Then Mrs. Bryce turned to her own letter.

"From my cousin in Norfolk. And if you'll believe it, Polly, they're all in a bustle and a fright there too, lest Nap should land first on the eastern coast. He'll have enough on hand, if he's to go everywhere that's expected of him. And if he goes there, they'll get them away into the fen country, where 'tis thought the French soldiers won't be able to follow."

Before Polly could reply, Jack walked in, and with him a young man, Albert Peirce by name, nephew to the Admiral, and subaltern in one of the Shorncliffe regiments.

Introductions followed, and Polly bestowed one of her most graceful curtseys upon the newcomer. No doubt Polly liked to be admired, as was natural in so pretty a girl; and she read instant appreciation of her charms in Mr. Peirce's face. So she did her best to be agreeable to him during the next two hours, and she seemed to be in very good spirits. Whether those spirits remained equally good after she had disappeared for the night, she alone could know.

Early the next morning, Polly was roused by agitated sounds.

"Polly! Polly! Wake up this instant, Polly! I vow and protest, the child is crazed! Wake up, Polly! Polly, do you hear—they're coming!"

Polly roused herself with great deliberation. Though lively enough at night, she was a heavy sleeper in the morning; and she dragged herself to a sitting posture, with half-shut eyes and loosely hanging hair, looking, it must be conceded, not quite so lovely as was her wont.

"Must I get up already, ma'am? 'Tis early."

"Get up! And already! 'Tis time you bestirred yourself in good earnest! Polly, they're coming! They're on their way hither."

"Jack and Mr. Peirce!" Polly yawned.

"Jack and Mr. Peirce, quotha! Why, 'tis the French! Cannot you understand, child? I've ever said 'twas nonsense, and they'd never truly come. But they're off! they're on their way! And the wind is favourable, and tis all up with us." Mrs. Bryce frantically wrung her hands, standing beside the curtained bed, in her flowered dressing-gown, her hair hanging loose, though not descending so low as Polly's abundant mane, while her face was yellow-white with terror. "And what we're to do nobody knows. Two French fleets of transports, and a whole French army aboard! And bonfires alight, and folks all astir, and there will be fighting, and people will be killed. And Mr. Bryce will sure be in the thick of everything, and he will get shot, and I shall be left a widow, Polly."

Mrs. Bryce collapsed on the foot of the bed. "And we might have been safe away, if I hadn't made such a prodigious fool of myself, never thinking for a moment that old Nap meant a word of what he said. I protest, 'tis enough to drive one distracted. I'll never in my life go to the sea-coast again, not for no sort of consideration! And they say old Nap'll be here in a few hours, Polly, and there's no way of getting off;—not a horse to be had for love or money! If I'd had a notion of it, I'd never have stopped here."

By this time Polly had grasped the situation, and her drowsiness was gone. She sprang out of bed upon her little white toes, and made a movement akin to dancing, as she flung a pink wrapper round her shoulders. This was being in luck, she would have said, if she had spoken out her first thought. To find herself in the very thick of it all—as safe as if a hundred miles away, with Moore and his soldiers to protect her, yet able to see everything!—it was delightful. Polly was a high-spirited girl, not easily alarmed; and fear found no corner in her mind this morning. She was simply eager and excited; whereas Mrs. Bryce, who from sheer perversity had refused to believe in even the possibility of an invasion, and who from sheer lack of imagination had failed to realise beforehand what such an invasion might mean, was overwhelmed with terror.

CHAPTER XI

A MISTAKEN READING

"HAS Jack been?" asked Polly.

"Jack—no. How should Jack be spared? He is wanted, of course. They'll all be wanted," moaned Mrs. Bryce. "And they'll all be killed. And we shall be taken prisoners, and be carried away to France, and put into dungeons, and never see England again."

"I shouldn't greatly mind going to France—if they would but let me be where—somebody is," murmured Polly. "But they won't—they'll never get here. Napoleon has no such easy task before him. They'll never get past our soldiers. Why, think—we've General Moore."

"Nay, but that's the worst! He's away at Dungeness Point. And the French will land before ever he can get back. The whole world is gone wrong."

"Where's Mr. Bryce?"

"Gone off to see what is being done. I could not keep him back. I protest, he'd no business to leave me. If the French arrive, I shall die of terror on the spot."

Polly executed another dainty pas on the bare boards.

"Hadn't we best make ready, ma'am, before they come?" she cheerfully asked.

"It's no manner of use, child. They may arrive any moment. Any moment, I tell you! and what on earth shall we do then?"

Polly suggested a preference for seeing the French in her frock rather than in a condition of undress; and with much coaxing she managed to get Mrs. Bryce back into the next room. Then, with all possible expedition, she made her morning toilette, flitting lightly about, and wondering what would happen next. After which, discovering that Mrs. Bryce's maid had fallen into a fit of hysterics over the prospect of "them Mounseers a-coming," she took the maid's place.

By the time that they both were dressed, Mr. Bryce returned with a good deal to tell. The whole place was in a grand commotion. An express had been despatched to General Moore at Dungeness Point, telling him of the news received from Folkestone, and informing him that the brigade was already under arms. The Volunteers had turned promptly out, also the Sea-Fencibles; and each man was prepared to do and dare his utmost in defence of home and country.

"Not a dull face to be seen, nor a frightened one—except—" declared Mr. Bryce, rubbing his hands, with a glance at the wan cheek of his usually lively wife. "All the world in high spirits—specially the soldiers! Jack only hopes that nothing may turn back the fleet. 'Tis time Napoleon should have a sharp lesson, he says. Heigho, Polly, you are fresh as a rose this morning. Come, we'll have our breakfast while we may. I see no need to starve out of compliment to the First Consul."

"And pray, sir, take me out after," implored Polly.

"Nay, child, you're safer in here. Perchance you'd be hurt in the bustle. Besides, it may be Jack will run in for a word, and he would be vexed to find you gone."

This was a cogent argument, and Polly submitted. She roved about the room, looking much out of the window, and singing under her breath scraps from ballads of the day. First came:

"Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered,
   And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky,
 And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered,
   The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die."

    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

"Stay, stay with us—rest—thou art weary and worn—
   And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay—
 But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
   And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away."

Polly made a break here, before her sweet voice took up another strain, more softly uttered:

"When you're parted, Polly Oliver,
   Parted from your own true love,
 Will you be true, Polly Oliver,
   True to your own true love?"

"Yes; though the waves divide us,—
   Yes; wheresoever you rove,—
 I'm ever your own little Polly,
   Ever your true, true love!"

She had altered it slightly, half by instinct, dropping the surname in the last verse.

"In truth, Polly, you seem mighty indifferent to Napoleon's doings," objected Mrs. Bryce; after which she inquired of her husband how they were to escape inland.

"Why, that I do not precisely see," Mr. Bryce answered, with exasperating satisfaction. "Every man in the place will be wanted, and not a horse can be spared. Doubtless General Moore will arrange matters. I think 'tis needful that we should wait a while, and see what may happen. 'Tis a question in my mind whether the French can ever get so far as to the coast of England."

Mrs. Bryce recurred hysterically to her former assertion that they might arrive at any moment.

"Hardly that, since ships must take time. But 'tis true they've signalled from Folkestone that the enemy's boats had left Calais, and that the transports and ships at Ostend were also out and steering westerly. So, with this wind, they'll perchance be here in a few hours, if our fleet do not cut them out on their way. And I promise them they'll have a warm reception, if they come. Eh, Polly! We're making ready for 'em."

"I can't have you leave us again—not for no sort of consideration," urged Mrs. Bryce. "Your duty, my dear, is to protect us. If the French come, what may Polly and I do?"

"They've a few small difficulties to get over first," Mr. Bryce remarked drily. "'Tis no case of walking quietly on shore. I'll be back in time to protect you both—though indeed, should the French arrive, my place would be in the ranks with others."

Mr. Bryce had not been in such spirits for many a day. He was a quiet and meek-mannered man generally; but the prospect of a fight made him feel young again. When next he returned, he carried a musket with supreme satisfaction. Few middle-aged men have not some remnants of boyhood in them; and all the boyhood in Mr. Bryce came that day to the surface. He studied his new weapon with glee, talking much to Polly of "firelocks," fingering daintily the touch-hole, showing her how the spark from the flint would set the gunpowder on fire, and foretelling the certain death of some unfortunate French conscript, forced to fight for Boney against his will.

"Nay, sir, but you need not kill him," remonstrated Polly. "Only fire at his limbs, pray, and we will nurse him till he is well again."

"I have writ a letter to your grandmother, Polly," Mrs. Bryce said in quavering tones. "Where is the wax? I wish it fastened at once. I protest, I've scarce strength to lift a penholder. But I've informed her that we'll go to Bath so soon as ever we may. I trust only that we'll not be taken prisoners for life before ever we're away from this."

Somewhat later, no further news having reached them, Mr. Bryce again sallied forth, and this time he consented to take Polly, both of them promising to return to Mrs. Bryce on the very first intimation that the invading fleet had been sighted. They had not walked far when a man on horseback drew near at a quick trot.

"'Tis himself!" Polly exclaimed, with enthusiasm. Both she and Mr. Bryce knew well that soldierly figure, with its peerless grace of bearing.

"All now will go well," murmured Mr. Bryce. "Let Napoleon come, and welcome—so long only as Moore is at hand."

Polly did not catch his words.

"The General! 'Tis the General, sir."

They stood still, and Moore, drawing rein sharply, sprang to the ground. He was well bespattered with mud, and he had the look of having ridden hard and fast.

"So," he said, breaking into a smile which lighted up his whole face,—"so 'tis a false alarm this time."

Polly's exclamation contained a note of something like disappointment. Mr. Bryce seemed more gratified than astonished. The General's keen glance went from the one to the other.

"Due to a mistaken signal," he remarked briefly, "which the signal-officer at Folkestone understood to mean what it did not mean. The French transports have not left their stations, either at Calais or at Ostend."

"And you, sir, were at Dungeness Point," observed Mr. Bryce. "You must have ridden the twenty miles thence at a great speed."

"At full gallop, the entire distance. My horse, poor fellow, is I fear the worse. Not this one; I have mounted another. But the alarm is scarce a subject for regret. The spirit displayed on all sides has been of the best."

"Will Napoleon really come, think you, sir?" asked Polly, half shy, half brave.

"If his intention be to come before the winter, he has little time to lose," Moore answered courteously, and also with a touch of reserve; for privately he had not much faith in the threatened invasion.

"And you think he may do so, in very truth?"

"He may doubtless make the attempt—if he choose. The question is rather, what will he gain by it? It would seem, however, that Government is in greater apprehension of invasion now than a while since. Three more regiments join me here next Tuesday."