"Bad shot!" ejaculated Dacres coolly. "All the same I think we will withdraw our men from the wall. Order them to lie down as far apart as possible. I'll be with you in a moment."
Deliberately hoisting the blue and white flag Dacres took a final survey of the horizon. Seeing no sign of the Dreadnought of the Air he descended to the patio.
Another shell screeched overhead, missing the parapet of the furthermost wall by a bare five feet. Fort Volador's gunners were getting the correct range, yet the rate of firing was painfully slow.
The third shot struck that part of the prison in which the British officers had been incarcerated. With a crash that shook the place the missile burst, blowing a gap in the outer and inner walls large enough for a horse and cart to pass.
"Señor," exclaimed a Valderian breathlessly, "Zaypuru has asked me to be allowed to speak with the Commandante of Fort Volador. He says he will order the battery to cease fire."
"It will be useless," replied Whittinghame.
"It is surely worth trying," urged General Galento, who was beginning to show signs of "jumpiness."
"Very good," assented Gerald. "You might accompany Zaypuru to the orderly-room, General, and repeat to me what he says."
Catching up his long sword, Galento, still resplendent in his borrowed plumes, ran across the patio, his movements hastened by a shell that struck the ground within ten yards of him—happily without bursting.
He found Zaypuru ashen with fear. Both Valderians, their enmity vanishing before a common danger, hurried to the orderly-room.