I was half in a doze,—dreaming of my school days at Broxville,—when suddenly came an awful crash that to me sounded like the crack of doom, and the dungeon was filled with pieces of stone, dirt, and cement, and a thick smoke that all but choked us. Mr. Raymond was hurled flat on top of me, and for the space of several seconds neither of us could speak or move.
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
THE FALL OF THE SPANISH STRONGHOLD.
“Wha—what does this mean?” I managed to gasp at last.
“The dungeon has been struck by a shell!” answered Mr. Raymond, breathing with difficulty. “There is a bombardment going on!”
“But we may be killed!”
“Let us trust not, Mark. Are you hurt much?”
“I have a cut in my cheek, and another in my left arm.”