Finding nothing more to be done in the way of carrying on the war, we laid poor Master Stickles and two more of the wounded upon the carriage of bark and hurdles, whereon our gun had lain; and we rolled the gun into the river, and harnessed the horses yet alive, and put the others out of their pain, and sadly wended homewards, feeling ourselves to be thoroughly beaten, yet ready to maintain that it was no fault of ours whatever.  And in this opinion the women joined, being only too glad and thankful to see us home alive again.

Now, this enterprise having failed so, I prefer not to dwell too long upon it; only just to show the mischief which lay at the root of the failure.  And this mischief was the vile jealousy betwixt red and yellow uniform.  Now I try to speak impartially, belonging no more to Somerset than I do to Devonshire, living upon the borders, and born of either county.  The tale was told me by one side first; and then quite to a different tune by the other; and then by both together, with very hot words of reviling and a desire to fight it out again.  And putting this with that, the truth appears to be as follows:—­

The men of Devon, who bore red facings, had a long way to go round the hills, before they could get into due position on the western side of the Doone Glen.  And knowing that their cousins in yellow would claim the whole of the glory, if allowed to be first with the firing, these worthy fellows waited not to take good aim with their cannons, seeing the others about to shoot; but fettled it anyhow on the slope, pointing in a general direction; and trusting in God for aimworthiness, laid the rope to the breech, and fired.  Now as Providence ordained it, the shot, which was a casual mixture of anything considered hard—­for instance, jug-bottoms and knobs of doors—­the whole of this pernicious dose came scattering and shattering among the unfortunate yellow men upon the opposite cliff; killing one and wounding two.

Now what did the men of Somerset do, but instead of waiting for their friends to send round and beg pardon, train their gun full mouth upon them, and with a vicious meaning shoot.  Not only this, but they loudly cheered, when they saw four or five red coats lie low; for which savage feeling not even the remarks of the Devonshire men concerning their coats could entirely excuse them.  Now I need not tell the rest of it, for the tale makes a man discontented.  Enough that both sides waxed hotter and hotter with the fire of destruction.  And but that the gorge of the cliffs lay between, very few would have lived to tell of it; for our western blood becomes stiff and firm, when churned with the sense of wrong in it.

At last the Doones (who must have laughed at the thunder passing overhead) recalling their men from the gallery, issued out of Gwenny’s gate (which had been wholly overlooked) and fell on the rear of the Somerset men, and slew four beside their cannon.  Then while the survivors ran away, the outlaws took the hot culverin, and rolled it down into their valley.  Thus, of the three guns set forth that morning, only one ever came home again, and that was the gun of the Devonshire men, who dragged it home themselves, with the view of making a boast about it.