The founder smiled grimly as he said to his child:

"A little more to the right, my lass. I warrant she don't burst; but she'll kick like a Castilian mule. Now, captain, if you like to stand aside, there's no need for you to run a risk."

Gil smiled and nodded his head as he took a final glance along the piece to satisfy himself as to the direction in which it was laid.

"There," he said. "I am quite ready; raise your arm a little, Mace, and let the burning linstock fall softly on the touch-hole. Now, Master Cobbe, give the word, please; when you will."

"As I cry three," cried the founder--"Ready--One, two, _three_."

Gil stood by the side of the piece, opposite to Mace, watching her face as she stood firm and unflinching; and as she lowered the linstock he inwardly cried, "Brave girl! she would face a peril that would kill any of less sterling mould."

For, at the word "three," she let the linstock-end, with its burning slow match, touch lightly, exactly on the point where the priming lay.

Then there was a flash, a ball of white smoke, vomited from the howitzer's mouth, a deafening roar, and the great iron ball struck the water fifty yards away, rose, dipped again, and went on skipping along the surface of the water till it crossed the lake, and split the decaying oak to fragments, where it stood blasted on the further shore.

A loud hurrah from the lookers-on told of their satisfaction; and the founder turned in admiration to the captain.

"A wonderful shot," he said; "but how learned you that trick, friend Gil? I thought we should never see the ball again."

"From throwing stones," said Gil, smiling. "If a stone should bound along the surface, why not a shot? That is the deadliest shot to my mind, Master Cobbe, that one could send at an enemy's ship, and it was bravely fired."

"Of course," said the founder, proudly. "If my child knew that I had made the powder, and my hands had designed and fashioned the piece, she felt she would have naught to fear. And now for a shell."

"Yes," said Gil, thoughtfully; "now for a shell. You think your piece will fire one straight, Master Cobbe, as well as a mortar throws one in a half-circle through the air?"

"I do," said the founder. "I lay my life on it."

"Then," said Gil, "I'd like to try my plan at the same time."

"What may that be, my lad?"

"Well, sir, it is this," said Gil. "You load your piece, then you prepare your well-charged shell, with a piece of slow match in its eye."

"Yes."

"And according to whether that is long or short, so is the time before it bursts the shell."

"Exactly, my lad."

"And you light the fuse or match before you place it in the howitzer."

"How else could you do it, my lad?"

"That we will try," said Gil. "I propose that you load the piece as you would a common gun, and then put in the shell with its fuse unlit."

"Why, that's no better than a shot," cried Wat Kilby.

"Nay, old lad, the powder would fire the match when the piece went off, and thus all the awkward preparation would be saved."

"My faith, Gil," said the founder, smiling, "it's a grand idea, and you shall try it; for if it succeeds there ought to be a big reward for the man who invents such a plan."

"Let's try, then," said Gil, quietly; and, with Wat Kilby's help, the piece was recharged, a shell filled with powder, and, with its fuse towards the charge, rammed home. Then the great piece was laid so that it commanded the broad tub set up as a mark.

"I reckon," said Gil, "that this shell should burst just about when it strikes that mark, which should be shattered to pieces; and, if an enemy's ship, or a fortress, terribly crippled by the effect."

"Good, my lad, it should," said the founder, smiling.

Without another word, Gil carefully adjusted the piece; the linstock was again handed to Mace, and, hiding a shudder, for her father's sake she once more fired the great gun, and after a few moments, as the roar rolled like thunder over the Pool, the founder exclaimed--

"A failure, Gil, a--"

_Crash_!

From a mile away came the roar of the bursting shell, like an echo of the first shot.

"A success, sir, a success; but we wanted a quarter the fuse," said Gil, smiling.

"It's glorious--it's grand!" cried the founder, excitedly. "Gil, your hand--nay, we don't shake hands now. Captain Carr, you could make a name as the greatest gunner in our land. Mace, my child, bravely fired.

Why, that shell must have struck the high rocks, where the new ironstone lies."

"Ay, it has," said Wat Kilby, who stood shading his eyes with his hand, as he gazed at the high precipitous rocks away behind the gabled house.

"Quick, there, another shot!" cried the founder. "Mace, my child, art ready for another?"

"Nay, father," she said quietly, and with a pained look in her eyes; "you should try this time."

"Ay, lass, and I will," he cried, as he watched the sponging-out and reloading of the piece; while Mace, who little recked in that shot of what she had done for her future, stood now a spectator, instead of an actor in the scene.

The piece was soon ready, and this time the shell was prepared by Gil himself, with a shorter fuse.

"Lay her so that the shell may burst over the great charcoal-heap by the corner of the wood," said the founder; and, after exercising a great deal of care, Gil laid the piece quite to his satisfaction.

"Now try," he said. "Ready!"

"Ready," cried the founder.

"Fire."

The linstock was again applied; there was the same tremendous roar; the great piece leaped back several feet, and a few seconds later, _crash_!

came the bursting of the shell once more, so near to the charcoal hill that the air was filled with the fragments that were scattered far.

"A great success, Gil; you have won a prize," cried the founder, "one of those that the world will talk of a century hence; but hey-day! what's this?"

There was the quick trampling of horses' feet, and at the end of a few seconds two horsemen came tearing along the track at full speed, their riders having apparently lost all control over their steeds. The first kept his seat, and tugged hard at the bridle; but the second was well on his horse's neck, to which he clung with all his might, his red face and his thickly-padded feather breeches showing that it was Sir Thomas Beckley, whose appearance was greeted by the founder with a roar of laughter.

Gil hardly glanced at him, for the happy sunshine of the past hours seemed to have been clouded, as the frightened horses stopped of their own accord, and he saw that the first arrival was Sir Mark, whose horse, like that of the baronet, had been startled by the bursting shell.

Volume 2, Chapter VIII.

HOW SIR MARK'S MEN CAME TO GRIEF.