Then the sound of sweet music, mingled with the soft voices of women, was wafted to our ears, and with beating hearts we fancied we could hear the light tread of silken feet, as they brushed over the polished floor of the ball-room.
It was a tantalising moment, and wistful glances were cast on the beleaguered town; while more than one of our party was heard impatiently muttering a wish that it might be carried by assault.
As we continued gazing, a bright jet of flame shot out horizontally from the parapet over Puerto Nuevo.
“Look out!” cried Twing, at the same instant flinging his wiry little carcase squat under the brow of a sand-wreath.
Several of the party followed his example; but, before all had housed themselves, a shot came singing past, along with the loud report of a twenty-four.
The shot struck the comb of the ridge, within several yards of the group, and ricocheted off into the distant hills.
“Try it again!” cried one.
“That fellow has lost a champagne supper,” said Twing.
“More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady,” suggested an officer.
“Oysters, too—only think of it!” said Clayley.