He glanced about with furtive, shifty eyes, grimaced and winked, after the manner of an animal just waking from a lazy nap.
"Where's the rest o' the fighters ?" he demanded quizzically, lolling out his tongue and peeping past Helm so as to get a glimpse of the English line.

"Where's yer garrison?
Have they all gone to breakfas' ?" The last question set Helm off again cursing and swearing in the most melodramatic rage.
Oncle Jazon turned to Beverley and said in rapid French: "Surely the man's not going to fight those fellows yonder ?" Beverley nodded rather gloomily.
"Well," added the old man, fingering his rifle's stock and taking another glance through the gate, "I can't shoot wo'th a cent, bein' sort o' nervous like; but I'll stan' by ye awhile, jes' for luck.

I might accidentally hit one of 'em." When a man is truly brave himself there is nothing that touches him like an exhibition of absolutely unselfish gameness in another.

A rush of admiration for Oncle Jazon made Beverley feel like hugging him.
Meantime the young British officer showed a flag of truce, and, with a file of men, separated himself from the line, now stationary, and approached the stockade.

At a hundred yards he halted the file and came on alone, waving the white clout.