"

"Yes, I know," he nodded. "Well, we must wait and see. I wonder now what
Philip would do,"--meaning my grandfather, in whose wisdom he had implicit
faith, as all had who knew him. "I'm inclined to think he would give him
up, you know. He would never loose him on the world again.... However, he
may die."

"Where is he--my grandfather? And what has been doing outside, and when can
we get out?"

"He is away to Peter Port, but he had to go by way of Jersey, and by night,
to avoid their look-out boats. He has got there all right, for there is
fighting on Herm. We heard the sound of the guns, and the Herm men are
getting back there as fast as they can go."

"What day is this?"

"To-day is Thursday."

"Thursday!" echoed Carette. "And we came in here on Tuesday! Is it Thursday
of this week or Thursday of next week, Uncle George?"

"This week," he said with surprise, for he could not possibly understand
how completely we had lost count of time. "Torode came across himself with
four big boat-loads of rascals, with carronades in their boats, too, and
they have turned the Island upside down in search of you. He thought, you
see, without doubt, that if he could lay hands on you there was no one else
could swear to anything but hearsay. But the Peter Port men will take your
grandfather's word for it, as they would take no one else's. And that word
concerning John Ozanne and his men would set them in a flame if anything
could. He was very loth to go, but he saw it was the surest way of ending
the matter. So he slipped away with Krok in the dark, and they were to swim
out to a boat off Les Laches and make their way by Jersey. Now, if you have
eaten, we will get out to the light."

"Dieu merci!" said Carette heartfully.

"And what about him?" I asked, nodding towards the wounded man.

"He must wait. Can he eat?"

"I have dropped brandy down his throat two or three times, and he seems to
swallow it."

"We will give him some more, and decide afterwards. Mon Dieu! But I wish
Philip was here."

"Would you tell him?"

"Surely! But not your mother, Phil," he said anxiously, and I knew again
how truly he loved her. "She must not know. She must never know."

"What about Aunt Jeanne?" I asked.

He shook his head. "The fewer that know the better." So we dropped some
more brandy and water into the wounded man's mouth, and gathered our few
belongings, and crept down the tunnel after Uncle George.

Oh, the blessedness of the