the hours he made friends with the soldiers on guard. He already knew
a little French, and with his natural quickness he soon made rapid
progress. At the end of a month he could get along capitally in the
language; at the end of three months he could speak the tongue
fluently; at the end of nine months--for thus did his term of
captivity drag itself out--he was, so far as the language was
concerned, almost a Frenchman. Thus the winter passed, and the spring
of 1703 came round, George Fairburn still an inmate of a French
prison, hopeless of escape, so far as he could see.

But his chance came at last suddenly and unexpectedly. One morning he
was escorted to the Hotel de Ville, to interpret for an officer
examining a batch of English prisoners who had been brought in from
the Netherlands border. The way to the town lay at no great distance
from the shore, and he observed how a boat lay close in on the low
sandy beach, no owner in sight. His heart leapt into his mouth, and he
had much ado to keep himself from betraying his thoughts by the flush
that mantled hotly on his cheek.

One, two, three hundred paces the boat was left behind. Now or never!
Instantly the lad started off back to the spot, his feet flying across
the sand.

A shout broke from the throats of his astonished guards, and a half
score of bullets whistled after the runaway. George ducked his head
and sped on unhurt. A second volley did little more harm than the
first, merely grazing the lobe of his right ear. The race was furious,
but the lusty English lad was far and away the superior of the heavy
Frenchmen. He gained the boat, the enemy still a hundred paces behind.
The painter was loosely wound round a large stone, and in a trice
George had leapt with it into the little craft. He had just time to
give a vigorous shove off before the pursuers came up, the foremost
dashing into the sea after him.

CHAPTER V

GEORGE RECONNOITRES

Splash through the water rushed the French soldiers in full chase.
Already they were beginning to cheer, for the leading man had all but
grabbed the boat, and the prisoner was as good as retaken. George
looked down for something with which to strike, for he did not intend
to submit without a struggle, but there was no oar on board. There had
been a small boat-hook, but that he had left sticking in the sand when
he gave his lusty shove off. The pursuer, up to his neck in water,
seized the boat, and for a moment his chi