She did not hear or notice the whisperings in the laurels behind her--

'Do you see that sulky old Croat, smoking his pipe under the tree?'

'No, he is a Black Brunswicker.'

'Nonsense, Willie; the Black Brunswickers weren't till Bonaparte's
time.'

'I don't care, he is anything black and nasty; here goes!'

'Oh stop; don't shoot. I believe he is only a vivandiere. Besides,
it's treacherous--'

'I tell you he is laying a train to blow up the tower. There!'

An arrow struck the bench beside Dolores, who, more angry than she had
ever been in her life, snatched it up, unheeding that it had no point
to speak of, rushed headlong in pursuit, while, with a tremendous
shout, Valetta and Wilfred flew before her to a waste overgrown place
at the end of the kitchen garden.

'We've shot a Croat!'

'No, a Black Brunswicker.'

'Oh ah! They are coming--the enemy! Into the fortress! Bar the
wolf's passage!'