e dusk, the noise of the engine was
swallowed up in the wild orchestra of the wind, and Dickson hobbled
towards the village in a state of excitement which made him oblivious
of his wounds. That lonely pistol shot was, he felt, the bell to ring
up the curtain on the last act of the play.

CHAPTER XIII

THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG

Mr. John Heritage, solitary in the old Tower, found much to occupy his
mind. His giddiness was passing, though the dregs of a headache
remained, and his spirits rose with his responsibilities. At daybreak
he breakfasted out of the Mearns Street provision box, and made tea in
one of the Die-Hard's camp kettles. Next he gave some attention to his
toilet, necessary after the rough-and-tumble of the night. He made
shift to bathe in icy water from the Tower well, shaved, tidied up his
clothes and found a clean shirt from his pack. He carefully brushed his
hair, reminding himself that thus had the Spartans done before
Thermopylae. The neat and somewhat pallid young man that emerged from
these rites then ascended to the first floor to reconnoitre the
landscape from the narrow unglazed windows.

If any one had told him a week ago that he would be in so strange a
world he would have quarrelled violently with his informant. A week ago
he was a cynical clear-sighted modern, a contemner of illusions, a
swallower of formulas, a breaker of shams--one who had seen through the
heroical and found it silly. Romance and such-like toys were
playthings for fatted middle-age, not for strenuous and cold-eyed
youth. But the truth was that now he was altogether spellbound by
these toys. To think that he was serving his lady was rapture-ecstasy,
that for her he was single-handed venturing all. He rejoiced to be
alone with his private fancies. His one fear was that the part he had
cast himself for might be needless, that the men from the sea would not
come, or that reinforcements would arrive before he should be called
upon. He hoped alone to make a stand against thousands. What the
upshot might be he did not trouble to inquire. Of course the Princess
would be saved, but first he must glut his appetite for the heroic.

He made a diary of events that day, just as he used to do at the front.
At twenty minutes past eight he saw the first figure coming from the
House. It was Spidel, who limped round the Tower, tried the door, and
came to a halt below the window. Heritage stuck out his head and
wi