was marshy, and above the swamp an almost
impenetrable furze-brake clothed both sides of the valley.
The Dragoons fought their way through, however, and were rewarded, a
little before dawn, by reaching a good turf slope and, at the head of
it, a lane which led them to the small village of Lanreath.

The inhabitants of Lanreath, aroused from their beds by the tramp of
hoofs and with difficulty persuaded that their visitors were not the
French, at length directed Captain Arbuthnot to the village inn, the
"Punchbowl," where he wisely determined to bait and rest his horses,
which by this time were nearly foundered. Being heavy brutes, they
had fared ill in the morass, and the most of them were plastered with
mud to their girths.

The troopers, having refreshed themselves with beer, flung themselves
down to rest, some on the settles of the inn-kitchen, others on the
benches about the door, and others again in the churchyard across the
road, where they snored until high day under the curious gaze of the
villagers.

So they slept for two hours and more; and then, being summoned by
trumpet, mounted and took the road again, the most of them yet heavy
with slumber and not a few yawning in their saddles and only kept
from nodding off by the discomfort of their tall leathern stocks.

In this condition they had proceeded for maybe two miles, when from a
by-lane on their left a horseman dashed out upon the road ahead,
reined up, and, wheeling his horse in face of them, stood high in his
stirrups and waved an arm towards the lane by which he had come.

It took Captain Arbuthnot some seconds to recognise this apparition
for Mr. Smellie. But it was indeed that unfortunate man.

He had lost both hat and wig; his coat he had discarded, no doubt to
be rid of its noisome odour: and altogether he cut the strangest
figure as he gesticulated there in the early sunshine. But the man
was in earnest--so much in earnest that he either failed to note, or
noting, disregarded, the wrathful frown with which Captain Arbuthnot,
having halted his troop, rode forward at a walk to meet him.

"Back, Captain, back!" shouted Mr. Smellie, pointing down the lane.

"I beg your pardon, sir"--the Captain reined up and addressed him
with cold, incisive politeness--"but may I suggest that you have
played the fool with us sufficiently for one night, and that my men's
tempers are short?"

"Havers!" exclaimed the indomitable Smellie, rising yet higher in