"They won't be Indians," I replied at last; "nor yet Roundheads.
There haven't been any Roundheads seen about here for a long
time. They'll be Frenchmen."

Harold's face fell. "All right," he said; "Frenchmen'll do; but
I did hope they'd be Indians."

"If they were going to be Indians," I explained, "I--I don't
think I'd go on. Because when Indians take you prisoner they
scalp you first, and then burn you at a stake. But Frenchmen
don't do that sort of thing."

"Are you quite sure?" asked Harold doubtfully.

"Quite," I replied. "Frenchmen only shut you up in a thing
called the Bastille; and then you get a file sent in to you in a
loaf of bread, and saw the bars through, and slide down a rope,
and they all fire at you--but they don't hit you--and you run
down to the seashore as hard as you can, and swim off to a
British frigate, and there you are!"

Harold brightened up again. The programme was rather attractive.

"If they try to take us prisoner," he said, "we--we won't run,
will we?"

Meanwhile, the craven foe was a long time showing himself; and we
were reaching strange outland country, uncivilised, wherein lions
might be expected to prowl at nightfall. I had a stitch in my