The music had ceased, and the
soldiers had disappeared over the rise. Through other dark arches
of masonry he ran. On the crest were two ways to choose--the
roadway on around and past the barracks, and a flight of steps cut
steeply in the living rock of the ledge, and leading up to the
King's Bastion. Bobby took the stairs at a few bounds.
On the summit there was nothing at all beside a tiny, ancient stone
chapel with a Norman arched and sculptured doorway, and guarding it
an enormous burst cannon. But these ruins were the crown jewels of
the fortifications--their origins lost in legends--and so they were
cared for with peculiar reverence. Sergeant Scott of the Royal
Engineers himself, in fatigue-dress, was down on his knees before
St. Margaret's oratory, pulling from a crevice in the foundations a
knot of grass that was at its insidious work of time and change. As
Bobby dashed up to the citadel, still barking, the man jumped to
his feet. Then he slapped his thigh and laughed. Catching the
animated little bundle of protest the sergeant set him up for
inspection on the shattered breeching of Mons Meg.
"Losh! The sma' dog cam' by 'is ainsel'! He could no' resist the
braw soldier laddies. 'He's a dog o' discreemination,' eh? Gin he
bides a wee, noo, it wull tak' the conceit oot o' the innkeeper."
He turned to gather up his tools, for the first dinner bugle was
blowing. Bobby knew by the gun that it was the dinner-hour, but he
had been fed at the farm and was not hungry.
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