At length, within sight of the twinkling lights of Paris, and a hundred yards or thereby off the common way, we were halted in a little wood, and bidden to lie down; no man was so much as to whisper.

Some slept, I know, for I heard their snoring, but for my part, I never was less in love with sleep.

When the sky first grew grey, so that we could dimly see shapes of things, we heard a light noise of marching men on the road.
"The English!" whispered he that lay next me.

"Hush!" breathed Randal, and so the footsteps went by, none of us daring to stir, for fear of the rustle in the leaves.
The sound soon ceased; belike they had struck off into these very fields wherethrough we had just marched.
"Now, Robin Lindsay, climb into yonder ash-tree, and keep your eyes on the mill and the beacon-fires," said Randal.
Robin scrambled up, not easily, because of his armour, and we waited, as it seemed, for an endless time.
"What is that sound," whispered one, "so heavy and so hoarse ?" It was my own heart beating, as if it would burst my side, but I said nought, and even then Robin slid from the tree, as lightly as he might.
He held up two fingers, without a word, for a sign that the beacons were lighted, and nodded.
"Down all," whispered Randal.
"Give them time, give them time." So there we lay, as we must, but that was the hardest part of the waiting, and no sound but of the fowls and wild things arousing, and the cry of sentinels from Paris walls, came to our ears.
At length Randal said, "Up all, and onwards!" We arose, loosened our swords in their sheaths, and so crossed to the road.

We could now see Paris plainly, and were close by the farm of the Mathurins, while beyond was the level land they call "Les Porcherons," with slopes above it, and many trees.
"Now, Norman," said Randal, "when we come within clear sight of the gate, two of us shall seize you by the arms as prisoner; then we all cry 'St.
George!' and set off running towards Paris.