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           Thefacesinthetorchlightwerelikethoseofpeopleoverbornewithhurryandpanic;andthoughnonespokeabovehisbreath,theirspeechsoundedbothanxiousandangry.

           Itwasaboutthistimethatalassiecameoutofthehousecarryingapackorbundle;andithasoftenmademesmiletothinkhowAlan’sinstinctawokeatthemeresightofit.

           “What’sthatthelassiehas?”heasked.

           “We’rejustsettingthehouseinorder,Alan,”saidJames,inhisfrightenedandsomewhatfawningway.“They’llsearchAppinwithcandles,andwemusthaveallthingsstraight.We’rediggingthebitgunsandswordsintothemoss,yesee;andthese,Iamthinking,willbeyourainFrenchclothes.We’llbetoburythem,Ibelieve.”

           “BurymyFrenchclothes!”criedAlan.“Troth,no!”Andhelaidholduponthepacketandretiredintothebarntoshifthimself,recommendingmeinthemeanwhiletohiskinsman.

           Jamescarriedmeaccordinglyintothekitchen,andsatdownwithmeattable,smilingandtalkingatfirstinaveryhospitablemanner.Butpresentlythegloomreturneduponhim;hesatfrowningandbitinghisfingers;onlyrememberedmefromtimetotime;andthengavemebutawordortwoandapoorsmile,andbackintohisprivateterrors.