The kitchen-garden, one of the longest claws of the abbey, extended to Monk’s camp.  Unfortunately it was, as we have said, early in June, and the kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered no resources.

Monk had ordered this spot to be guarded, as most subject to surprises.  The fires of the enemy’s general were plainly to be perceived on the other side of the abbey.  But between these fires and the abbey extended the Tweed, unfolding its luminous scales beneath the thick shade of tall green oaks.  Monk was perfectly well acquainted with this position, Newcastle and its environs having already more than once been his headquarters.  He knew that by this day his enemy might without doubt throw a few scouts into these ruins and promote a skirmish, but that by night he would take care to abstain from such a risk.  He felt himself, therefore, in security.

Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he boastingly called his supper — that is to say, after the exercise of mastication reported by us at the commencement of this chapter — like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz, seated asleep in his rush chair, half beneath the light of his lamp, half beneath the reflection of the moon, commencing its ascent in the heavens, which denoted that it was nearly half past nine in the evening.  All at once Monk was roused from his half sleep, fictitious perhaps, by a troop of soldiers, who came with joyous cries, and kicked the poles of his tent with a humming noise as if on purpose to wake him.  There was no need of so much noise; the general opened his eyes quickly.

“Well, my children, what is going on now?” asked the general.

“General!” replied several voices at once, “General! you shall have some supper.”

“I have had my supper, gentlemen,” replied he quietly, “and was comfortably digesting it, as you see.  But come in, and tell me what brings you hither.”

“Good news, general.”

“Bah!  Has Lambert sent us word that he will fight to-morrow?”

“No; but we have just captured a fishing-boat conveying fish to Newcastle.”

“And you have done very wrong, my friends.  These gentlemen from London are delicate, must have their first course; you will put them sadly out of humor this evening, and to-morrow they will be pitiless.  It would really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and his fishermen, unless — " and the general reflected an instant.

“Tell me,” continued he, “what are these fishermen, if you please?”

“Some Picard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or Holland, and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind.”

“Do any among them speak our language?”

“The leader spoke some few words of English.”

The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh information reached him.  “That is well,” said he.  “I wish to see these men; bring them to me.”