Forty valiant horsemen they were, riding two-and-two (by reason of the narrowness of the road) and a captain beside them—­men broad and long, with hairy top-lips, and all clad in scarlet jackets and white breeches that showed bravely against their black war-horses and jet-black holsters, thick as they were wi’ dust.  Each man had a golden helmet, and a scabbard flapping by his side, and a piece of metal like a half-moon jingling from his horse’s cheek-strap. 12 D was the numbering on every saddle, meaning the Twelfth Dragoons.

Tramp, tramp! they rode by, talking and joking, and taking no more heed of me—­that sat upon the wall with my heels dangling above them—­than if I’d been a sprig of stonecrop.  But the captain, who carried a drawn sword and mopped his face with a handkerchief so that the dust ran across it in streaks, drew rein, and looked over my shoulder to where father was digging.

“Sergeant!” he calls back, turning with a hand upon his crupper; “didn’t we see a figger like this a-top o’ the tower, some way back?”

The sergeant pricked his horse forward and saluted.  He was the tallest, straightest man in the troop, and the muscles on his arm filled out his sleeve with the three stripes upon it—­a handsome red-faced fellow, with curly black hair.

Says he, “That we did, sir—­a man with sloping shoulders and a boy with a goose neck.”  Saying this, he looked up at me with a grin.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” answered the officer, and the troop rode on in a cloud of dust, the sergeant looking back and smiling, as if ’twas a joke that he shared with us.  Well, to be short, they rode down into the town as night fell.  But ’twas too late, Uncle Philip having had fair warning and plenty of time to flee up towards the little secret hold under Mabel Down, where none but two families knew how to find him.  All the town, though, knew he was safe, and lashins of women and children turned out to see the comely soldiers hunt in vain till ten o’clock at night.

The next thing was to billet the warriors.  The captain of the troop, by this, was pesky cross-tempered, and flounced off to the “Jolly Pilchards” in a huff.  “Sergeant,” says he, “here’s an inn, though a damned bad ‘un, an’ here I means to stop.  Somewheres about there’s a farm called Constantine, where I’m told the men can be accommodated.  Find out the place, if you can, an’ do your best:  an’ don’t let me see yer face till to-morra,” says he.

So Sergeant Basket—­that was his name—­gave the salute, and rode his troop up the street, where—­for his manners were mighty winning, notwithstanding the dirty nature of his errand—­he soon found plenty to direct him to Farmer Noy’s, of Constantine; and up the coombe they rode into the darkness, a dozen or more going along with them to show the way, being won by their martial bearing as well as the sergeant’s very friendly way of speech.