This (I say) was the position, though we at Lawhibbet knew not how desperate ’twas for the rebels our guests; only that our food was pinched to short rations of bread and that payment had ceased, though the sergeants still gave vouchers duly for the little we could supply.  The battery above us kept silence day after day, save twice when the Royalists made a brief show of forcing the pass; but at intervals each day we would hear a brisk play of artillery a little higher up the stream, where they had planted a fort on the high ground by St. Nectan’s Chapel, to pound at Lostwithiel in the valley.  For my part I could have pitied the rebels, so worn they were with weeks of hunger and watching, to which the weather added another misery, turning at the close of the month to steady rain with heavy fogs covering land and sea, and no wind to disperse them.  Margery had no pity; but I believed would have starved cheerfully—­if that could have helped—­to see these poor sodden wretches in worse plight.

I think ’twas on the morning of the 28th that the Royalists across the ford showed a flag of truce; which having been answered, a small party of horse came riding over, the leader with a letter for the Earl of Essex which he was suffered to carry to Fowey, riding thither in the midst of an escort of six and leaving his own men behind on the near side of the ford.

While they waited by their horses I drew near to one of them and asked him if he knew aught of my brother, Captain Mark Lantine.  He answered, after eyeing me sharply, that he knew my brother well—­a very gallant officer, now serving with the Earl of Cleveland’s brigade.

“That will be on the slope beneath Boconnoc,” said I.

“How know you that?” he asked briskly, and I was telling him that the dispositions of the Royal troops were no secret to the rebels (warning of all fresh movements being brought daily to the ford from Lostwithiel), when a sergeant interrupted and, forbidding any further converse, packed me off homeward, yet not unkindly.

For what came of this talk Margery—­to whom I reported it that same evening—­must bear the credit.  For two days she brooded over it, keeping silence even beyond her wont, and then on the night of the 30th, at nine o’clock, when I was scarce abed, she tapped at my door and bade me arise and dress myself.  She had an expedition to propose, no less than that we should cross the river and pay Mark a visit in his quarters.

Her boldness took away my breath:  yet as she whispered her plan it did not seem impossible or, bating the chance of being shot by a stray outpost, so very dangerous.  A heavy fog lay over the hills, as it had lain for nights.  The tide was flowing.  My father’s boat had been dragged ashore and lay bottom upwards under a cliff about three hundred yards above the ford.  If we could reach and right it without being discovered, either one of us was clever enough, with an oar over the stern, to scull noiselessly across to the entrance of a creek where the current would take us up towards Boconnoc between banks held on either side by Royalists; to whom, if they surprised us, we could tell our business.