A slight rustle near him made him gaze upwards once to see a rabbit scurry away from a hole beneath the great stone, and this he marked as suitable for laying the charge to lift away the mass.
At last, the men came toiling up the steep ascent, and Wat Kilby busied himself in preparing a mine that should do what was required without further damage to the store.
It was soon done—a train laid, and a fuse prepared. Then Mother Goodhugh was carefully lifted and laid behind a corner of the rock, where harm could not befall her, and Wat Kilby stood ready to fire the fuse after seeing all the men were safe.
“Now, captain,” he said, “as soon as you like.”
“Stop a moment,” said Gil, thoughtfully, though all the time he was experiencing a fierce longing to enter the cave once more.
“What for, captain?” said Wat gruffly, as he puffed at his pipe.
“The sound may be heard, and bring Sir Mark’s fellows down.”
“Nay,” cried Wat, “the noise will run down the valley and out to sea, my lad. They’ll not hear it inland, I lay my life. Bah! and if they did, what then? No one could find his way here without a guide.”
“Go on, then,” said Gil quietly; and, drawing back to the shelter of a little recess, he stood watching the acts of Wat Kilby, a famous old gunner in his way, as, after puffing at his pipe to make it glow, he just touched the end of the fuse, laid the other end by the train, and limped coolly to the captain’s side.
From the rocky recess they could see the fuse sparkle and burn rapidly away, and listen to the buzz of the voices of the crew as they talked of the explosion; then a zigzag line of fire seemed to run along amongst the heather and ferns; there was a blinding flash, a thick white smoke, and, lastly, a heavy dull roar that rolled down the ravine, and the fall of masses of the splintered rock.