  All was dark within the kitchen of the cottage. Spears of white light piercing the gloom told of day without. The cottage was fast as a fortress. Stout planks were nailed across either door. Heavy shutters darkened the windows. Through a loop-hole a stream of light poured in on Nelson's old foretop-man. Horn spectacles hung on his nose. His eyes were down, the silver head erect and drawn back. At arm's length beneath him he held a great Book in a splash of light. He was reading aloud, spelling out the words, as does a child, and following with huge finger. Outside a musket cracked; a bullet wanged against the wall; there was the crisp trickle of dislodged mortar. Still muttering, the old man closed his Book, and removed his spectacles. Then he slewed his chair round to the loop-hole, and felt for his musket. The light poured in upon the moon-washed head, the noble brow, and calm eyes peering forth. Deliberately the old man moved his head to and fro, searching the offender. Then the musket went to his shoulder, cheek hugged stock, the face grew set. The mystic had turned man of action. There was a flash in the darkness, a smother of white in the room, and outside a sudden sobbing cry. A hand waved in the cloud, and out of it a still voice said, "He wun't trouble no more." The old man leant his reeking musket against the wall, and took up his |
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