“Yes, it will.  I shall lay some boughs of bush across my face and the kegs, so that there will be no fear of my face showing; and if a sentry should happen to catch sight of it, he will suppose that it is merely a bush drifting in the stream.”

“Well, goodbye, John, and may you get through without trouble.”

“I have no fear, Walter.  I am in God’s hands, and He will take me safely through, if He thinks fit.”

The journey was achieved without detection, the only difficulty being the sinking of the kegs under the boom; this, however, was successfully accomplished, and by midnight, the kegs were safely hidden in some bushes at the foot of the wall, and there John lay down and waited for morning.

As he entered the yard, the children ran out to meet him.  There were no loud rejoicings; they had no longer strength or spirit to shout and laugh; but the joy in the thin worn faces was more eloquent than any words could have been.

“We have missed you so, John.  We have wanted you so much.  Lucy and Kate and Deby were so bad yesterday, and they did cry so for you.  We were all so hungry.  We don’t mind so much, when you are here to talk to us and tell us stories.  Why did you stop away, John, when we wanted you so?”

“I went away to see if I could manage to get you something to eat.”

“And did you?” was the anxious cry.

“I have got a little; but you must wait till evening, and then you will each have—­” and he stopped.

“What, John?  Oh, do tell us!”

“You will each have some milk and bread.

“Not much, dears,” he went on, as there was a cry of gladness, which was pitiful from the intensity of joy it expressed, “but there will be some for tonight, and a little curds and whey and bread for you tomorrow and next day, and I hope always, as long as this lasts.  Now go, dears, into your castle.  I will come to you presently.  I have brought you some water, as usual.”

“I am heartily glad to see you back, John,” his cousin said, as he entered the house.  “The children were in a sad state without you, yesterday.  I suppose you can tell me, now, what you have been doing.  You told me you would be away two nights, and begged me not to ask any questions; but, although I know you to be discreet and prudent, I have been worrying.”

“I will tell you now,” John said, and he recounted the details of the expedition which he had accomplished.

“And you have swum the river twice, and been in the camp of the Papists.  Truly it is surprising, John, and I know not what to do.  Should your visit there be discovered, you will assuredly be accused of treachery.”

“They may accuse me of what they like,” John said quietly.  “I have done it, and I am going to do it again, every fourth night, and there is the milk and bread at the foot of the wall, ready for you to haul up as soon as it gets dark.”

“It ought to be fairly divided,” the tanner said.