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 Hôtel 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