“Sooner the better, Master Sep,” said one of the workmen. “Better keep away from the window, sir.”
“No,” I replied, “I must see what they are doing.”
I felt that I must, and going to the window I stood upon a chair, and, keeping out of sight, looked down from the upper corner just in time to see a man run back from the door to join his companions, several of whom held rough torches of oakum steeped in tar.
“What are they doing, Big?” I whispered.
“That fellow has just laid a powder-bag by the door. But, Sep, you can’t see any Englishmen there, can you?”
“No,” I said hastily; “but I’m sure that’s the French skipper Gualtière standing to the left of the French captain.”
“So it is,” whispered Bigley. “I thought I knew the face. Look out!”
“What are they going to do?”
“The men are being drawn back, all but the fellows with the lights, and one of them is coming forward to light the powder. Yes; now all the others are retiring.”
“I can see,” I whispered. “Now I can see the man with the torch. I say, will it blow the place up?”