By the time Mr. Fett concluded his narrative we had reached the
outskirts of the town, and found ourselves in a traffic which,
converging upon the Market Strand from every side-street and alley,
at once carried us along with it and constrained us to a walking
pace. My father, finding the throng on the Market Strand too dense
for our horses, turned aside to the Three Cups Inn across the street,
gave them over to the ostler, and led us upstairs to a window which
overlooked the gathering.

The Market Strand at Falmouth is an open oblong space, not very wide,
leading off the main street to the water's edge, and terminating in
steps where as a rule the watermen wait to take off passengers to the
Packets. A lamp-post stands in the middle of it, and by the base of
this the preachers--a grey-headed man and two women in ugly bonnets--
were already assembled, with but a foot or two dividing them from the
crowd. Close behind the lamp-post stood a knot of men conversing
together one of whom stepped forward for a word with the grey-headed
preacher. He wore a rose in his hat, and at sight of him my heart
gave a wild incredulous leap. It was Nat Fiennes!

I pushed past my father and flung the open window still wider.
The grey-haired preacher had opened the Bible in his hand and was
climbing the stone base of the lamp-post when a handful of filth
struck the back of the book and bespattered his face. I saw Nat whip
out his sword and swing about angrily in the direction of the shot,
while the two women laid hands on either arm to check him; and at the
same moment my father spoke up sharply in my ear.

"Tumble out, lad," he commanded. "We are in bare time."