"Nice!" grumbled Uncle Paul. "I don't know what I was thinking about to
give way to you in such treacherous weather. Why, it's worse than ever.
How are we going to get back to the schooner?"

"Oh, it will soon be over, uncle, and if it isn't we must get to know
where the nearest place is from that sentry, and make a rush for it to
get some tea, and wait there till the shower is over."

"Shower!" said Uncle Paul. "It looks to me like a night of storm coming
on, and as if we shan't get back to the schooner to-night."

"Well, it doesn't matter, uncle," cried the boy coolly. "There's sure
to be a good hotel, and Captain Chubb will know why we haven't come
back. As soon as there's a bit of a lull we will make a run for it, and
we shall be able to get a lesson in French."

"Bah!" said Uncle Paul impatiently. "How the wind comes whistling
through this archway! We shall be getting wet even here."

The two men on guard were evidently of the same opinion, for they turned
to their sentry boxes and began to put on their overcoats, after
standing their muskets inside.

But before this was half done, each snatched up his piece again and
faced the entrance, for all at once there was the clattering of hoofs in
the cobbled paved street, and a cavalry officer, followed at a short
distance by a couple of men, dashed up to the front and turned in under
the archway, drenched with rain, the officer saying something sharply to
one of the sentries.

The man replied by pointing to a doorway at the back of the great
entrance, while the officer swung himself from his horse, threw the rein
to one of his men, and then lifting his sabre-tache by the strap he gave
it a swing or two to throw off the water from its dripping sides, and
then opened the great pocket to peer inside as if to see that its
contents were safe.

The next moment, as if satisfied, he let it fall to the full length of
its slings, gave a stamp or two to shake off the water that dripped from
him, and then raised his hands to give a twist to the points of his wet
moustache. He scowled fiercely at Rodd the while, and then marched
towards the doorway with the steel scabbard of his sabre clinking and
clanking over the stones.

"Pretty good opinion of himself, Pickle," said Uncle Paul quietly.

"Yes, uncle; but what a pair of trousers--no, I mean long boots--no, I
don't; I mean trousers.--Which are they, uncle?" added the boy, who was
rather tickled by the size and the