They lingered long over the tea-table, talking and laughing, and when they had finished, Phyllis discovered with surprise that it was nearly bedtime. The promised story was not omitted, however, and Phyllis, sitting on a little footstool at her brother’s feet, looked up eagerly for it. ‘Well, Phyl, I will tell you a true history that I heard from an officer who had served in the Peninsular War—the war in Spain, you know.’ ‘Yes, with the French, who killed their king. Lily told me.’ ‘And the Portuguese were helping us. Just after we had taken the town of Ciudad Rodrigo, some of the Portuguese soldiers went to find lodgings for themselves, and, entering a magazine of gunpowder, made a fire on the floor to dress their food. A most dangerous thing—do you know why?’ ‘The book would be burnt,’ said Phyllis. ‘What book, you wise child?’ ‘The Magazine; I thought a magazine was one of the paper books that Maurice is always reading.’ ‘Oh!’ said Claude, laughing, ‘a magazine is a store, and as many different things are stored in those books, they are called magazines. A powder magazine is a store of barrels of gunpowder. Now do you see why it was dangerous to light a fire?’ ‘It blows up,’ said Phyllis; ‘that was the reason why Robinson Crusoe was afraid of the lightning.’ ‘Right, Phyl, and therefore a candle is never allowed to be carried into a powder magazine, and even nailed shoes are never worn there, lest they should strike fire. One spark, lighting on a grain of gunpowder, scattered on the floor, might communicate with the rest, make it all explode, and spread destruction everywhere. Think in what fearful peril these reckless men had placed, not only themselves, but the whole town, and the army. An English officer chanced to discover them, and what do you think he did?’ ‘Told all the people to run away.’ ‘How could he have told every one, soldiers, inhabitants, and all? where could they have gone? No, he raised no alarm, but he ordered the Portuguese out of the building, and with the help of an English sergeant, he carried out, piece by piece, all the wood which they had set on fire. Now, imagine what that must have been. An explosion might happen at any moment, yet they had to walk steadily, slowly, and with the utmost caution, in and out of this place several times, lest one spark might fly back.’ ‘Then they were saved?’ cried Phyllis, breathlessly; ‘and what became of them afterwards?’ ‘They were both killed in battle, the officer, I believe, in Badajoz, and the sergeant sometime afterwards.’