Half a mile or so behind the battle cruisers were two light cruisers, which apparently took little part in the one-sided engagement. They were engaged in the pleasant occupation of mine-laying, in the hope that one of the British squadrons, summoned by wireless, would flounder blindly into the dangerous zone.
"Oh, for a couple of our submarines!" groaned Terence, as the hostile craft moved slowly along the bay. "They'd bag the whole crowd of them."
Twenty paces from the spot where the subs. stood was an old bronzed and bearded fisherman—a typical Yorkshire salt. Heedless of the risk he ran, he leapt upon the stone parapet, and shaking his fist at the German ships rated them in the choicest language of the Shire of Broad Acres. Nor would he descend when Aubyn pointed out the risk he ran, and it was only when a shell tore a huge hole in the side of the lighthouse that the old fellow would deign to move.
For a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes the two cruisers maintained a hot fire with their starboard guns. Then came a pause in the hitherto ceaseless roar of the ordnance, as the ships circled to port. Retracing their course they reopened fire, till, gradually increasing speed, they shaped a course nor'nor'east and disappeared in the haze.
"Let's gie into town an see t' damage," suggested the old fisherman, who, like the rest of the hardy East Coast men, had little respect for rank and persons. "Sith'a, lads, there'll be work for us over yonder," and he pointed to the maze of houses, many of which showed signs of the effect of the high-explosive shells.
In the course of his sea-service Terence Aubyn had witnessed more than one horrible sight; but in all his previous experience he had never seen anything approaching the cold-blooded butchery of mere civilians—men, women, and children—by the murderous German shells.
With the energy and coolness that is characteristic of the born seaman he dashed into a practically gutted house, whence cries of pain had attracted his attention.
The house was in one of the poorer districts, substantially built of stone, as is frequently the case in the north of England. A projectile had struck the building just above the ground-floor window. The stonework had, for the most part, resisted the explosion, the force of which had resulted in floors and roofs being either demolished or reduced to a state of absolute insecurity. The ground floors were piled high with débris, under which, though partly visible, was the dead body of an old man.
The cries for aid, uttered in a childish voice, came from the upper storey. Here a part of the bedroom floor had collapsed, exposing to view a wooden bedstead, so insecurely perched that it threatened at every moment to topple over into the chaotic mass thirty feet below. The stairs had vanished, only the iron handrail and a few of its supports remaining.
"What's the move?" demanded Waynsford, as Aubyn threw off his great-coat and handed it to a boy who was watching the scene of desolation with marked curiosity. "Don't be a fool, man! Wait till they bring a ladder."