The British batteries had found and were hammering at it; not the guns upon Mount Olia, which had been hauled thither to dominate those of the citadel, but a dozen 24-pounders disposed, with a line of mortars behind them, on the lower slope above the estuary, where an out-cropping ridge of rock gave firm ground among the sand-dunes.  The undulating line of these dunes hid this, the true breaching battery, from view of Sergeant Wilkes and his men, though they had halted within a hundred yards of it, and for at least an hour the guns had been given a rest.  Only, at long intervals, one or other of the mortars threw a bomb to clear the breach—­already close upon a hundred feet wide—­driven between the two flanking towers.  It was behind this breach that the town blazed.  The smoke, carried down the estuary by the land-breeze, rolled heavily across the middle slopes of Mount Orgullo.  But above it the small castle stood up clearly, silhouetted against the western light, and from time to time one of its guns answered the fire from Mount Olia.  Save for this and the sound of falling timbers in the town, San Sebastian kept silence.

‘Wonder what it feels like?’

Sergeant Wilkes, not catching the meaning of this, turned about slowly.  The speaker was a tall young corporal, Sam Vicary by name and by birth a Somerset lad—­a curly haired, broad-shouldered fellow with a simple engaging smile.  He had come out with one of the later drafts, and nobody knew the cause of his enlisting, but it was supposed to be some poaching trouble at home.  At all events, the recruiting sergeant had picked up a bargain in him, for, let alone his stature—­and the Royals as a regiment prided themselves on their inches—­he was easily the best marksman in B Company.  Sergeant Wilkes, on whose recommendation he had been given his corporal’s stripe, the day after Vittoria, looked on him as the hopefullest of his youngsters.

‘Feels like?’ echoed the sergeant, following the young man’s gaze and observing that it rested on the great breach.  ’Oh! ’tis the assault you mean?  Well, it feels pretty much like any other part of the business, only your blood’s up, and you don’t have to keep yourself warm, waiting for the guns to tire.  When we stormed the San Vincenty, now, at Badajoz—­’

Some one interrupted, with a serio-comic groan.

’You’ve started him now, Sam Vicary!  Johnny-raws of the Third Battalion, your kind attention, pray, for Daddy Wilkes and the good old days when pipeclay was pipeclay.  Don’t be afraid, for though he took that first class fortress single-handed, you may sit upon his knee, and he’ll tell you all about it.’

‘It’s children you are, anyway,’ said the sergeant, with a tolerant smile.  ’But I’ll forgive ye, when the time comes, if ye’ll do the Royals credit—­and, what’s more, I’ll never cast up that ’twas but a third battalion against a third-class place.  Nor will I need to,’ he added, after a pause, ’if the general makes a throw for yon breach before clearing the hornwork.’