“Ah!” said Ben, solemnly, “them tomtits have had the guns all to themselves for a fine time. I shall have to make some tompions to keep them out.”
Quite a heap of nest-building material was drawn out of the two guns, the first obtained being evidently of that season, while farther in it was old and decayed to a mere mouldy powder that might have been carried in by the industrious little birds a score of years before.
At last all was declared clear. The bags of powder were thrust in, a wad of the cleanest hay from the heap followed, and one of the troopers rammed the charges home, with the result that the powder rose well in the touch-holes, and nothing remained to be done but to insert the lightly twisted pieces of touch-string and apply a light.
“Better way than doing it with a red-hot poker, as some of us might like to stand back till the guns are proved,” said the old soldier, grimly. “One of you take that there to the kitchen and get a light,” he said, “to do for a port-fire.”
He handed a piece of the prepared oakum to one of the men, who ran off with it, and directly after Roy stepped back quickly and hurried into the house.
Ben said nothing, but he glanced after the boy with a fierce look, pursing up his lips, and then muttering to himself, his expression indicating the most profound disgust.
Meanwhile, Roy ran into the private apartments of the castle, and made his way to the library; but Lady Royland was not there.
Uttering an ejaculation full of impatience, the boy hurried into the withdrawing-room, where he had better fortune, for he found his mother waiting there as if she expected him.
“You, my dear?” she said. “I was waiting here to see Master Pawson; he sent me a message to ask if I would see him on matters of importance. Do you know what he wishes to say?”
“Well, I almost think I do, mother,” replied the boy.