“A failure, Gil, a—”
Crash!
From a mile away came the roar of the bursting shell, like an echo of the first shot.
“A success, sir, a success; but we wanted a quarter the fuse,” said Gil, smiling.
“It’s glorious—it’s grand!” cried the founder, excitedly. “Gil, your hand—nay, we don’t shake hands now. Captain Carr, you could make a name as the greatest gunner in our land. Mace, my child, bravely fired. Why, that shell must have struck the high rocks, where the new ironstone lies.”
“Ay, it has,” said Wat Kilby, who stood shading his eyes with his hand, as he gazed at the high precipitous rocks away behind the gabled house.
“Quick, there, another shot!” cried the founder. “Mace, my child, art ready for another?”
“Nay, father,” she said quietly, and with a pained look in her eyes; “you should try this time.”
“Ay, lass, and I will,” he cried, as he watched the sponging-out and reloading of the piece; while Mace, who little recked in that shot of what she had done for her future, stood now a spectator, instead of an actor in the scene.
The piece was soon ready, and this time the shell was prepared by Gil himself, with a shorter fuse.