ch, on its eastern side, sheltered Talland Cove. One may say,
considering the heavy dew and the nature of the ridge--of slate
formation and sharply serrated--they had clung to it obstinately.
Above them the clear and constellated dome of night turned almost
perceptibly around its pole. At their feet the tide lapped the
beach, phosphorescent, at the last draught of ebb.

Somewhere in the darkness at the head of the beach--either by the
footbridge where the stream ran down, or in the meadow behind it--lay
the main body. A few outposts had been flung wide to the westward,
and Captain Pond for the second time had walked off to test their
alertness and give and receive the password--"_Death to the
Invader_."

"And a more cold-running act of defiance I don't remember to have
heard--no, not in all my years of service," said Gunner Israel
Spettigew, a cheerful sexagenarian, commonly known as Uncle Issy,
discussing it with his comrades on the ridge. "There's a terrible
downrightness about that word 'death.' Speaking for myself, and
except in the way of business, I wouldn' fling it at a cat."

"'Tis what we must all come to," said Gunner Oke, a young married
man, gloomily shifting his seat.

"True, lad, true. Then why cast it up against any man in particular,
be he French or English? Folks in glass houses, simmin' to me,
shouldn' throw stones."

"I reckon you fellows might find something more cheerful to talk
about." Gunner Oke shifted his seat again, and threw a nervous
glance seaward.

"William Oke, William Oke, you'll never make a sojer! Now I mind
back in 'seventy-nine when the fleets of France an' Spain assembled
and come together agen us--sixty-six sail of the line, my billies,
besides frigates an' corvettes an' such-like small trade; an' the
folks at Plymouth blowing off their alarm-guns, an' the signals
flying from Maker Tower--a bloody flag at the masthead an' two blue
uns at the outriggers. Four days they laid to, in sight of the
assembled multitude of Looe, an' Squire Buller rode down to form us
up to oppose 'em. 'Hallo!' says the Squire, catching sight of me.
'Where's your gun? Don't begin for to tell me that a han'some,
well-set-up, intelligent chap like Israel Spettigew is for hangin'
back at his country's call!' 'Squire,' says I, 'you've a-pictered me
to a hair. But there's one thing you've left out. I've been turnin'
it over, an' I don't see that I'm fit to die.' 'Why not?' says he.
'I'm n