the kitchen passage and then rung again
on the stone stairs. Dickson's ear of faith heard also the soft patter
of naked feet as the Die-Hards preceded and followed him. He was
delivering himself blind and bound into their hands.

For a minute or two there was no sound but the wind, which had found a
loose chimney cowl on the roof and screwed out of it an odd sound like
the drone of a bagpipe. Dickson, unable to remain any longer in one
place, moved into the centre of the hall, believing that Leon had gone
to the smoking-room. It was a dangerous thing to do, for suddenly a
match was lit a yard from him. He had the sense to drop low, and so
was out of the main glare of the light. The man with the match
apparently had no more, judging by his execrations. Dickson stood stock
still, longing for the wind to fall so that he might hear the sound of
the fellow's boots on the stone floor. He gathered that they were
moving towards the smoking-room.

"Heritage," he whispered as loud as he dared, bet there was no answer.

Then suddenly a moving body collided with him. He jumped a step back
and then stood at attention. "Is that you, Dobson?" a voice asked.

Now behold the occasional advantage of a nick-name. Dickson thought he
was being addressed as "Dogson" after the Poet's fashion. Had he
dreamed it was Leon he would not have replied, but fluttered off into
the shadows, and so missed a piece of vital news.

"Ay, it's me." he whispered.

His voice and accent were Scotch, like Dobson's, and Leon suspected
nothing.

"I do not like this wind," he grumbled. "The Captain's letter said at
dawn, but there is no chance of the Danish brig making your little
harbour in this weather. She must lie off and land the men by boats.
That I do not like. It is too public."

The news--tremendous news, for it told that the new-comers would come
by sea, which had never before entered Dickson's head--so interested
him that he stood dumb and ruminating. The silence made the Belgian
suspect; he put out a hand and felt a waterproofed arm which might have
been Dobson's. But the height of the shoulder proved that it was not
the burly innkeeper. There was an oath, a quick movement, and Dickson
went down with a knee on his chest and two hands at his throat.

"Heritage," he gasped. "Help!"

There was a sound of furniture scraped violently on the floor. A gurgle
from Dickson served as a guide, and the Poet suddenly cascaded over the
co