ed his head on his arms and his chin on his knees,
shutting out the sound and sobbing quietly.

Yesterday his mother had been buried; to-night his father's door had
been closed in his face. He scarcely knew whether his being locked out
was an accident or whether it was intended. He thought of the time when
his father had ill-treated his mother and himself. That, however, had
stopped at last, for the woman had threatened the Royal Court, and
the man, having no wish to face its summary convictions, thereafter
conducted himself towards them both with a morose indifference.

The boy was called Ranulph, a name which had passed to him through
several generations of Jersey forebears--Ranulph Delagarde. He was being
taught the trade of ship-building in St. Aubin's Bay. He was not beyond
fourteen years of age, though he looked more, so tall and straight and
self-possessed was he.

His tears having ceased soon, he began to think of what he was to do
in the future. He would never go back to his father's house, or be
dependent on him for aught. Many plans came to his mind. He would learn
his trade of ship-building, he would become a master-builder, then a
shipowner, with fishing-vessels like the great company sending fleets to
Gaspe.

At the moment when these ambitious plans had reached the highest point
of imagination, the upper half of the door beside him opened suddenly,
and he heard men's voices. He was about to rise and disappear, but the
words of the men arrested him, and he cowered down beside the stone. One
of the men was leaning on the half-door, speaking in French.

"I tell you it can't go wrong. The pilot knows every crack in the coast.
I left Granville at three; Rulle cour left Chaussey at nine. If he lands
safe, and the English troops ain't roused, he'll take the town and hold
the island easy enough."

"But the pilot, is he certain safe?" asked another voice. Ranulph
recognised it as that of the baker Carcaud, who owned the shop. "Olivier
Delagarde isn't so sure of him."

Olivier Delagarde! The lad started. That was his father's name. He
shrank as from a blow--his father was betraying Jersey to the French!

"Of course, the pilot, he's all right," the Frenchman answered the
baker. "He was to have been hung here for murder. He got away, and
now he's having his turn by fetching Rullecour's wolves to eat up your
green-bellies. By to-morrow at seven Jersey 'll belong to King Louis."

"I've done my promise," rejoin