Lille had been fortified by no less a person than the great master of the art, Vauban himself.  In charge of its garrison was Marshal Boufflers, a splendid officer.  Louis was as resolute to defend and keep the place as the Allies were to take it.  The actual investment of the town was placed in the hands of Eugene, whose men had by this time arrived, while Marlborough covered him.  The siege train brought up by the Duke and his generals stretched to a distance of thirteen miles.  Berwick and Vendome were at no great distance away.

The siege of Lille lasted a full two months, and few military operations have produced more splendid examples of individual dash and courage.

Blackett and his friend found themselves one day taking part in a risky bit of business.  Throughout the siege there had been some difficulty in procuring provisions for the Allies, and supplies were drawn from Ostend.  On this occasion an expected convoy had not arrived to time, and a reconnoitring party had accordingly been sent out to glean tidings of it.  From a wooded knoll a glimpse of the missing train was caught, and at the same moment a large body of French was perceived approaching from the opposite direction.  The Frenchmen had not yet seen the convoy, being distant from it some miles, the intervening country thickly studded with plantations.  But in half an hour the two bodies would have met, and the provisions sorely needed would have fallen into the enemy’s hands.  It was a disconcerting pass, and George Fairburn set his wits to work.

“I have a plan!” he cried a moment later, and he hastily told it to the officer in command, Major Wilson.  That gentleman gave an emphatic approval.

Behold then, a quarter of an hour later, a couple of young peasants at work in a hayfield down below.  Stolidly they tossed the hay as they slowly crossed the field, giving no heed to the tramp of horses near.  A voice, authoritative and impatient, caused them to look round in wonderment, as a mounted officer came galloping up.  He inquired of the peasants whether they had seen anything of the convoy, describing its probable appearance.  The listeners grinned in response, and the face of one of them lit up with intelligence, as he made answer in voluble but countrified French.

“Where have you picked up such vile French?” inquired the officer.

“I’m from Dunkirk, please your honour,” the man replied with another grin, to which the other muttered, “Ah!  I suppose the French of Dunkirk is pretty bad!”

In another minute the yokels were leading the way through a plantation, along which ran a little stream.  At one spot the water was very muddy, and the marks of hoofs were plentiful.  “We are evidently close upon them,” remarked the officer jubilantly, and at a brisk trot he and his men rode on, a gold louis jingling down at the feet of the peasants as the party dashed away.

“Now for it!” whispered George, for he and Matthew were the two rustics, “we can save the convoy.  Our men, after trampling over the burn here, will have turned as we agreed.  We shall find them in the next plantation.”