soldier to desert his post. He shall have a correction."
Felipe hurried to the cannon, gave one glance at its breech, and turned to Henderson, consternation, dismay, in his face.
"He has spiked it—he has fled to Roberto!"
"But no, Felipe! How"
"Look!" Felipe pointed to the touch-hole. "I cannot fire it. We are lost!"
"Easy, Felipe—the others must not know of this. It looks like the end of a file the scoundrel shoved in there and broke off—maybe we can get it out. Get a pair of pincers from the blacksmith shop and try."
Felipe was in a tremble of despair, almost panic. His reliance on the gun had been so entire, so confident, so vast, that he was now in the condition of one precipitated into the sea by an explosion that did not leave him a single plank to keep him afloat. Henderson was thankful that none of the volunteers was close enough to discover either Felipe's excitement or the cause of it. He waited at the cannon breech for Felipe to bring the pincers, inwardly dismayed, but outward calm.
The piece of steel wedged into the touch-hole—was down too far for the jaws of the pincers; a trial proved that it could not be removed that way.—Felipe threw down the useless tool, sweat of his mental turmoil streaming down his face.
"God save us! Only a drill will do it. We must fly, Gabriel, we must fly!"
