A deep, vibrant "boom" broke on their ears, and died with long-drawn echoes amid the encircling mountains.
"The enemy have sent their visiting-card!" said Mrs. Saunders.
Saunders rose, and stepped hurriedly out of the long window on to the balcony, his wife following. The former produced a pair of field-glasses, and critically regarded a puff of smoke that hung motionless in the still morning air to the extreme left of the panorama.
"Four-inch Creusot," he said laconically; "that means that redoubt A has found something to practise at—a feint attack, probably. I must go to my post in the Marienkastel. They'll have worked round there in a couple of hours, and then the serious business will begin."
Another sounding roar came pealing along the hillsides, and then a veritable concert, as the other iron mouths took up the harsh music and shook the thin air with their stern melody.
From where they stood the actual operations of the attack were invisible by reason of the pine woods that clothed the plain in that direction. But there was much to see from the commanding site occupied by the Saunders' villa. The town itself,—with its circle of improvised forts,—lay considerably below them to the left. Companies of soldiers were plainly discernible defiling to the various points of defence assigned to them, and the blare of bugles rang shrilly through the strident chorus of the distant cannon. It was plain that the greatest activity prevailed, but an activity well-ordered, thought-out, and purposeful.
Meyer,—with all his unsoldierly distaste for personal danger,—was almost perfect as the general of a threatened city. Every detail had been thought out, every unit of the defence was ready at a moment's notice to take his appointed place.
Saunders turned his sweeping gaze to the right, and it lighted upon the private curling-rink belonging to Major Flannel's villa. He smiled, for the contest for the Flannel Cup had already begun, and was going on heedless of the stern symphony that was making the valleys echo with bursts of shattering sound.
A curling competition demands a whole-hearted absorption from its votaries, and takes little heed of battle, murder, and sudden death, provided the ice is keen and in good order.
"What are you smiling at?" demanded Mrs. Saunders.