“Here, then: this is to put the seal to your lease, Peter,” said Hemsworth, as he pulled the trigger.
A quick report followed, and then a crashing sound, as of splintered timber, and, sudden as the lightning flash itself, a noise burst forth louder than thunder, and at the same moment the house, and all that were in it, were blown into the air, while the massive rock was shattered from its base, full fifty feet up above the road. Report after report followed, each accompanied by some new and fearful explosion, until at length a great portion of the cliff was rent asunder, and scattered in huge fragments across the road, where, amid the crumbling masonry and the charred rafters, lay four black and lifeless bodies, without a trait which should distinguish one from the other.
All was silent on the spot, but through every glen in the mountains the echoing sounds sent back in redoubled peals the thunder of that dreadful explosion, and through many a far-off valley rung out that last requiem over the dead.
For some time the timbers and the thatch continued to burn, emitting at intervals lurid bursts of flame, as more combustible matter met the fire, while now and then a great report, and a sudden explosion, would announce that some hitherto untouched store of powder became ignited, until, as day was breaking, the flames waned and died out, leaving the rent rocks and the ruined cabin the sad memorials of the event.
Nor were these the only occurrences of which the glen was that night the witness. Mark, his brain burning for the moment when the fray should commence, rode on amid the storm, the crashing branches and the loud brawling torrents seeming to arouse the wild spirit within him, and lash his enthusiasm even to madness. The deafening clamour of the hurricane increased, as he came nearer the Bay, where the sea, storm-lashed and swollen, beat on the rocks with a din like artillery.
But louder far than all other sounds were the minute peals of cannon from the Bay, making the deep valleys ring with their clangour, and sending their solemn din into many a far-off glen.
“They are coming! they are coming!” cried Mark, as he bounded madly in his saddle. “What glorious music have they for their march!”
“Stop!—pull in!—hould hard, Master Mark!” screamed a voice from the side of the road, as a fellow jumped from a cliff, and made towards the rider.
“Don't delay me now, Terry; I cannot stay,” said Mark, as he recognised the youth, “the French are landing!”
“They are not!” cried Terry, with a yell of despair; “they are going off, leaving us for ever, and the glen is full of soldiers. The dragoons is there; ay, not half a mile from you,” as he pointed through the gloom in the direction of the glen.