“But we couldn’t now, father,” cried Mark. “If it had been a challenge, and we had gone and attacked them, and conquered, it would have been grand, but the Edens couldn’t go and fight wounded men—hit people when they are down.”
“No, my boy,” said Sir Edward firmly; “the Edens could not do that.”
A busy day followed, with the men collected in a state of the wildest excitement, those who had been wounded in the attack upon the cavern and the bitter encounter between the allies for the most part declaring their readiness to bear arms again.
“But you’re not fit, Dan,” said Mark, as he stood talking to the head miner.
“Not fit, Master Mark?” cried the sturdy old fellow, showing his teeth; “I’m going to show that gang of murderous wolves that I am very fit indeed. My arm won’t go very well, and I turn a bit sick and swimming whenever I turn my head.”
“Then you mustn’t go,” cried Mark.
“Mustn’t, Master Mark,” said the man grimly, “but I must. The lads’ll fight as well again with me there. And look here: I won’t use my right hand, and I won’t turn my head; so I shall be all right, and I’m not going to fight.”
“Then what is the use of your coming?”
The man half shut one eye.
“Powder!” he whispered—“powder. You know what that will do, eh?”