How Gil and his Men drew Sword.The hours glided slowly by, and the soft damp of night scented the forest with its peculiar odours,—of decaying leaves, swift-growing fungi, and mouldering wood. Ever and again a leaf that had hung lightly by its dying stalk became so laden with dew that it fell pattering down with a noise that seemed startlingly loud in the silence of the time.Borne on the sighing breeze that whispered through the branches above came, rising and falling, the rushing sound of falling water, as the swift stream dashed past the front of the founder’s house, and hurried towards the huge wheel, but only to be turned aside to sweep with a sudden plunge into the lower hole.There was something very strange and hollow that night in the sound of the rushing stream; and, as Gil stood leaning against a tree, the falling water seemed now distant, dying away in sighs; now close at hand, rolling down with a thunderous bass. If he had been asked why it affected him, he could not have said; but its deep notes sounded then like a portent of mishap. He remembered it afterwards so well, for every incident of that memorable evening seemed to be burned into his brain, and he had but to lean over the side of his ship and gaze away into the depths of air and sea to have all come vividly back as if the events were then taking place.Hour after hour glided by and there was no interruption, nothing to disturb the solitude. From time to time Gil walked back to the oak, but only to find his men well on the alert, and that the sentries had nothing to report. There was scarcely any talking, no drinking, and no smoking, for his people were in earnest to do everything possible to carry out their leader’s plans. Even Wat Kilby contented himself with sucking quietly at his empty pipe and glancing round at every man in turn to see that the rules were kept.Hardly a word had passed between Wat and his leader, for the old man was in dudgeon. He had had his shrewd suspicions that Gil intended to carry off Mace that night, and he had come to the conclusion that his duty was to take Janet at the same time. To his anger and disgust, though, he found that this was strictly forbidden, and earlier in the day a sharp verbal contest had ensued.“Why can’t I take her abroad?” he growled. “You’re going to have a priest, and I want a wife same as other men.”“Once for all, Wat,” said Gil, sternly; “I will have no paltering with the work I have on hand. Will you obey me and work to the end for my scheme?”“Why, of course I will,” grumbled the old fellow, “but I don’t see why as—”“Not another word!” cried Gil. “But what I says is this, skipper: Thou’st got a priest—”“Silence, sir; how dare you!” roared Gil; and the old man shrank away to pull out his little pipe, and begin sucking at it viciously, jerking his long body about, and acting generally as if he had a volcanic eruption going on within him, the safety-valve to which was an explosion of muttered words now and then, which escaped after a kind of quake that shook him like a spasm from top to toe.All the same, though, Wat made no further resistance to his leader’s will, but with the energy of a long tried, well-disciplined follower, he worked away at the various preparations, and was as obedient as a dog.As Gil stood thinking in the wood, he once more went over his plans, wondering whether there would be an encounter with Sir Mark’s followers, and then smiling grimly to himself, as he half wished there might be, and thought of how he would like once more to stand face to face with the man who was so nearly robbing him of her whom he had always looked upon as his very own.At last the time seemed to him to be a fitting one for the venture, and, giving the signal, his men started up from amongst the dewy herbage; there was the clink of arms and a rustling noise as all fell into their places; and, taking the head of his little force, Gil gave his final orders, especially commanding silence, and made for the Pool-house.Gil’s plans were well matured, and his followers fell into their respective places without confusion. Arriving pretty close to the foundry, he posted them behind the smallest of the furnace-sheds, where the black shadow of night was blacker than in the open; and then, with Wat at his elbow, he made for another shed, where he knew that a short stout ladder was kept.This was in its place, and Wat was about to shoulder it, when in a low hoarse whisper the old fellow said:—“You’ll let me take her, too, skipper?”For answer Gil turned angrily.“Put that ladder down,” he whispered; “and go back. Send Morris.”“No, no, skipper,” whispered the old fellow hastily. “Let me go.”“Put down the ladder. Go back, and send me a trustworthy man.”“I’m the trust worthiest man you’ve got, skipper,” growled Wat, “only I was obliged to say a word for I feel as I ought to marry the girl now. You don’t know what it is to be in love, skipper, or you would not treat me thus.”“Do you go, or stay?” said Gil.“Stay,” said Wat. “I shan’t leave you, skipper, come what may. I’ve done. Not another word about it will you hear from me.”Wat shouldered the ladder, and together the two men walked towards the water-run, and along it by the stones to the little bridge, which they softly crossed, and entered the garden.They paused to listen, but all was very still and dark. A more suitable night could not have been chosen for the adventure, and together they made for Mace’s window, where a dim light was burning.The end of the ladder rustled slightly as it was borne amongst the trees, and they again stopped to listen; but all was still, and so intense was the darkness now before moonrise—the moon that was to light the boat down the river to where the ship lay waiting—that they could see neither to the right nor the left, even the thick bushes under the window were in the gloom.Would she fail him at this important time? Gil’s heart asked; but he crushed down the thought. No: she would come, he was sure of it, for she had promised him, and he felt no fear of her wanting in spirit for the enterprise.“No,” he muttered; “she would go through fire and water to escape his touch alone, and she would dare more to be beside me.”There was a thrill of joy at these thoughts, and he gazed anxiously at the window, waiting to see it opened, that he might raise the ladder and help her away.It must be the hour, he thought, but the next minute he set it down to impatience.“She will be to her time,” he said.As if warned by an instinct of coming danger, Gil Carr drew his sword, and, resting the point upon the toe of his boot, stood leaning his hands upon the hilt, while Wat placed the foot of the ladder on a flowerbed, and held the two sides, with his rusty-beard upon one of the spokes, thinking of how he wished they were going to carry off Janet, and whether she would have been willing to come.“She did call me an old fool last time, and slapped my face,” he muttered; “but that was only by way of showing how fond she was. Ha! it be terrifying work having to deal with such an arbitrary skipper as ourn.”Gil still gazed at the window, thinking that if he had changed places with Sir Mark, and a dangerous foe had been in the field, a cordon of sentries would have been placed round the house for his love’s protection; whilst Sir Mark was evidently sleeping luxuriously, and dreaming, perhaps, of possessing his fair young bride. “Poor, befooled idiot!” said Gil to himself; “I do not envy him his morrow’s waking. Why, if I—. Pst! Wat, your sword.”His left hand involuntarily flew to the silver whistle that hung at his neck, while his sword was raised readily, and turned aside a pass that grazed his ribs. For in an instant the bushes around them seemed alive with armed men, who rose in obedience to a call, and made for Gil and his old follower.Wat was as much upon the alert as his leader, but he had not time to draw his sword. Not that it mattered, for the short ladder became a very effective weapon in the emergency. Raising it with both hands above his head, he poised it there for a moment, keeping it well ready, and then, darting it rapidly forward again and again, he drove it into the chests of three or four assailants, sending them crashing down amongst the bushes, as he kept them sufficiently distant to prevent them from reaching him with the points of their swords.As the first blade gritted against that of Gil’s, he placed the whistle to his lips, and its note rang out shrilly on the midnight air, to be answered by the rush of feet over the little wooden bridge as his men came running up; and now there was nothing left but for the defenders of the house to be beaten back, the place itself to be forced, and Mace carried away.“Swing the bridge!” cried a voice, which Gil recognised as that of Sir Mark. “They’re trapped now. Hollo, there! Lights, quick! Surrender, you dogs, in the King’s name.”There was a creaking noise as the little bridge was swung round, and Gil felt that, far from being in sleepy indolence and safety, Sir Mark had not only been well on the alert, but had cleverly made his plans according to his own lights to entrap his rival and his followers when they came, attracted, as he felt that they would be, by the bait within the founder’s house.“Poor fool!” muttered Gil, “if he thinks he can take us here.”For his men came running to his side to group round where he and Wat were standing well at bay.
The hours glided slowly by, and the soft damp of night scented the forest with its peculiar odours,—of decaying leaves, swift-growing fungi, and mouldering wood. Ever and again a leaf that had hung lightly by its dying stalk became so laden with dew that it fell pattering down with a noise that seemed startlingly loud in the silence of the time.
Borne on the sighing breeze that whispered through the branches above came, rising and falling, the rushing sound of falling water, as the swift stream dashed past the front of the founder’s house, and hurried towards the huge wheel, but only to be turned aside to sweep with a sudden plunge into the lower hole.
There was something very strange and hollow that night in the sound of the rushing stream; and, as Gil stood leaning against a tree, the falling water seemed now distant, dying away in sighs; now close at hand, rolling down with a thunderous bass. If he had been asked why it affected him, he could not have said; but its deep notes sounded then like a portent of mishap. He remembered it afterwards so well, for every incident of that memorable evening seemed to be burned into his brain, and he had but to lean over the side of his ship and gaze away into the depths of air and sea to have all come vividly back as if the events were then taking place.
Hour after hour glided by and there was no interruption, nothing to disturb the solitude. From time to time Gil walked back to the oak, but only to find his men well on the alert, and that the sentries had nothing to report. There was scarcely any talking, no drinking, and no smoking, for his people were in earnest to do everything possible to carry out their leader’s plans. Even Wat Kilby contented himself with sucking quietly at his empty pipe and glancing round at every man in turn to see that the rules were kept.
Hardly a word had passed between Wat and his leader, for the old man was in dudgeon. He had had his shrewd suspicions that Gil intended to carry off Mace that night, and he had come to the conclusion that his duty was to take Janet at the same time. To his anger and disgust, though, he found that this was strictly forbidden, and earlier in the day a sharp verbal contest had ensued.
“Why can’t I take her abroad?” he growled. “You’re going to have a priest, and I want a wife same as other men.”
“Once for all, Wat,” said Gil, sternly; “I will have no paltering with the work I have on hand. Will you obey me and work to the end for my scheme?”
“Why, of course I will,” grumbled the old fellow, “but I don’t see why as—”
“Not another word!” cried Gil. “But what I says is this, skipper: Thou’st got a priest—”
“Silence, sir; how dare you!” roared Gil; and the old man shrank away to pull out his little pipe, and begin sucking at it viciously, jerking his long body about, and acting generally as if he had a volcanic eruption going on within him, the safety-valve to which was an explosion of muttered words now and then, which escaped after a kind of quake that shook him like a spasm from top to toe.
All the same, though, Wat made no further resistance to his leader’s will, but with the energy of a long tried, well-disciplined follower, he worked away at the various preparations, and was as obedient as a dog.
As Gil stood thinking in the wood, he once more went over his plans, wondering whether there would be an encounter with Sir Mark’s followers, and then smiling grimly to himself, as he half wished there might be, and thought of how he would like once more to stand face to face with the man who was so nearly robbing him of her whom he had always looked upon as his very own.
At last the time seemed to him to be a fitting one for the venture, and, giving the signal, his men started up from amongst the dewy herbage; there was the clink of arms and a rustling noise as all fell into their places; and, taking the head of his little force, Gil gave his final orders, especially commanding silence, and made for the Pool-house.
Gil’s plans were well matured, and his followers fell into their respective places without confusion. Arriving pretty close to the foundry, he posted them behind the smallest of the furnace-sheds, where the black shadow of night was blacker than in the open; and then, with Wat at his elbow, he made for another shed, where he knew that a short stout ladder was kept.
This was in its place, and Wat was about to shoulder it, when in a low hoarse whisper the old fellow said:—
“You’ll let me take her, too, skipper?”
For answer Gil turned angrily.
“Put that ladder down,” he whispered; “and go back. Send Morris.”
“No, no, skipper,” whispered the old fellow hastily. “Let me go.”
“Put down the ladder. Go back, and send me a trustworthy man.”
“I’m the trust worthiest man you’ve got, skipper,” growled Wat, “only I was obliged to say a word for I feel as I ought to marry the girl now. You don’t know what it is to be in love, skipper, or you would not treat me thus.”
“Do you go, or stay?” said Gil.
“Stay,” said Wat. “I shan’t leave you, skipper, come what may. I’ve done. Not another word about it will you hear from me.”
Wat shouldered the ladder, and together the two men walked towards the water-run, and along it by the stones to the little bridge, which they softly crossed, and entered the garden.
They paused to listen, but all was very still and dark. A more suitable night could not have been chosen for the adventure, and together they made for Mace’s window, where a dim light was burning.
The end of the ladder rustled slightly as it was borne amongst the trees, and they again stopped to listen; but all was still, and so intense was the darkness now before moonrise—the moon that was to light the boat down the river to where the ship lay waiting—that they could see neither to the right nor the left, even the thick bushes under the window were in the gloom.
Would she fail him at this important time? Gil’s heart asked; but he crushed down the thought. No: she would come, he was sure of it, for she had promised him, and he felt no fear of her wanting in spirit for the enterprise.
“No,” he muttered; “she would go through fire and water to escape his touch alone, and she would dare more to be beside me.”
There was a thrill of joy at these thoughts, and he gazed anxiously at the window, waiting to see it opened, that he might raise the ladder and help her away.
It must be the hour, he thought, but the next minute he set it down to impatience.
“She will be to her time,” he said.
As if warned by an instinct of coming danger, Gil Carr drew his sword, and, resting the point upon the toe of his boot, stood leaning his hands upon the hilt, while Wat placed the foot of the ladder on a flowerbed, and held the two sides, with his rusty-beard upon one of the spokes, thinking of how he wished they were going to carry off Janet, and whether she would have been willing to come.
“She did call me an old fool last time, and slapped my face,” he muttered; “but that was only by way of showing how fond she was. Ha! it be terrifying work having to deal with such an arbitrary skipper as ourn.”
Gil still gazed at the window, thinking that if he had changed places with Sir Mark, and a dangerous foe had been in the field, a cordon of sentries would have been placed round the house for his love’s protection; whilst Sir Mark was evidently sleeping luxuriously, and dreaming, perhaps, of possessing his fair young bride. “Poor, befooled idiot!” said Gil to himself; “I do not envy him his morrow’s waking. Why, if I—. Pst! Wat, your sword.”
His left hand involuntarily flew to the silver whistle that hung at his neck, while his sword was raised readily, and turned aside a pass that grazed his ribs. For in an instant the bushes around them seemed alive with armed men, who rose in obedience to a call, and made for Gil and his old follower.
Wat was as much upon the alert as his leader, but he had not time to draw his sword. Not that it mattered, for the short ladder became a very effective weapon in the emergency. Raising it with both hands above his head, he poised it there for a moment, keeping it well ready, and then, darting it rapidly forward again and again, he drove it into the chests of three or four assailants, sending them crashing down amongst the bushes, as he kept them sufficiently distant to prevent them from reaching him with the points of their swords.
As the first blade gritted against that of Gil’s, he placed the whistle to his lips, and its note rang out shrilly on the midnight air, to be answered by the rush of feet over the little wooden bridge as his men came running up; and now there was nothing left but for the defenders of the house to be beaten back, the place itself to be forced, and Mace carried away.
“Swing the bridge!” cried a voice, which Gil recognised as that of Sir Mark. “They’re trapped now. Hollo, there! Lights, quick! Surrender, you dogs, in the King’s name.”
There was a creaking noise as the little bridge was swung round, and Gil felt that, far from being in sleepy indolence and safety, Sir Mark had not only been well on the alert, but had cleverly made his plans according to his own lights to entrap his rival and his followers when they came, attracted, as he felt that they would be, by the bait within the founder’s house.
“Poor fool!” muttered Gil, “if he thinks he can take us here.”
For his men came running to his side to group round where he and Wat were standing well at bay.
How the Powder had its Say.Sir Mark had not been alone in his suspicions, for the founder had had a half fancy come into his head that Gil might make some effort to prevent the marriage; and after all he could not help feeling that he would not be sorry if this were done. Now it had come so near he thought more than ever that he was doing wrong in giving his consent, for Mace’s distress seemed to be ever on the increase, and he dreaded losing his child.“But it’s too late now,” he muttered—“too late. Matters must go on as they are, and it will be a grand and good thing for my little girl to become my lady—Dame Leslie, who will take her place at Court with the finest of them there.”“Do you think our friend Culverin will show himself at the wedding to-morrow?” Sir Mark said.“I cannot help thinking that he will,” said the founder.“Well, for my part,” said Sir Mark, “I have a suspicion that we shall see him sooner—that he will make an effort to carry her off to-night.”“Nay!” cried the founder, flushing, “he would not dare.”“I think he would,” said Sir Mark, with a cunning smile. “Why look, man, what easier? He has followers and a vessel. Depend upon it, he will try to get our darling away to his ship.”“If he dared to attempt such an outrage,” cried the founder, half rising from his seat; and then, as if changing his mind, he sat back thoughtfully in his chair.“You would spit him, eh, Master Cobbe? A most worthy proceeding. But, look here, I have made my plans.”“Plans?”“Yes. I have, as you know, six men here, all well-armed, and to do honour to my wedding a gentleman of His Majesty’s household, a friend of mine, will be here this evening, as soon as it is dusk, with eighteen fighting-men beside. These will come unseen, when I give the signal, and be placed in ambush in the garden. I shall plant two by the open bridge, and, if our friend comes, he and his men will walk into a trap, for the moment they are over, the bridge will be closed, and thus, you see, my dear father-in-law elect, I shall rid myself of an awkward rival, and his Majesty of a band of buccaneers.“But there will be bloodshed, and on the eve of my child’s wedding.”“Pish!” cried Sir Mark. “Have no fear of that. Once the rats are in the trap, and they will shriek for mercy, as such ruffians and bullies always do. My dear father-in-law, you shall have the pleasure of seeing the whole band tied two and two, and marched off, when the district will be cleared.”“And my business ruined,” said the founder.“Trust me for that, old man,” said Sir Mark, smiling. “You shall make culverins and howitzers for his Majesty’s troops to your heart’s content, so have no fear. Powder shall you manufacture, too, but we will not talk of that. Did his Majesty know that powder was stored upon your place, ay, ever so little, he would never be your friend. But how do you like my plans?”“Not well,” said the founder, gloomily. “I liked Gil. You rob him of the woman he meant to be his wife. Why take his liberty as well?”“Master Cobbe, this is wretched drivel,” cried Sir Mark, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “What am I to think of it?”“What you will,” said the founder, sullenly; “I like not my part at all.”“And you will betray my plans?” said Sir Mark, angrily.“Nay!” exclaimed the founder, sharply, as something of his old mien showed itself in his countenance. “Sir Mark Leslie, I am a rough yeoman of the country, but I have something of the gentleman at my heart. You insult me by your suspicions. I gave you my word, and my hand upon it, that my child should be your wife, and I repent me of it now; but Jeremiah Cobbe is not the man to go back from his word, and, sooner than Gil Carr should forcibly carry her away, I’d take him myself, and deliver him into your hand.”“I did but jest, father,” said Sir Mark, grasping the founder’s hand. “Now, let us see something of pretty little Mace for an hour, before I perfect my plans.”Janet was summoned, but she announced that her mistress was busy preparing things for her departure, and the girl hurried back to Mace’s room, to gloat over the silk dresses and presents that lay about.Other messages were sent to Mace in the course of the evening, but she refused to come, and at last, out of patience, as the soft autumn night began to fall, Sir Mark went out to finish his arrangements.“You are master, to-day, my lady,” he muttered; “to-morrow I shall rule, and you’ll know it too.”Had Gil dared to post a man nearer to the house, he would have known of the preparations made to entrap him, though possibly they would not have kept him back. As it was he knew nothing of the well-armed soldiers who, punctual to the moment, marched across the bridge, and were rapidly disposed in suitable places by Sir Mark, who exhibited no mean generalship in his plans.Then came the waiting, and Sir Mark stood listening with the founder by his side.“They’ll not come,” said the latter, impatiently, after a weary while.“Hist! there is one,” whispered Sir Mark, as a footstep cautiously crossed the bridge.“Why it is a woman,” said the founder.“A disguise,” replied Sir Mark. “Gil himself.”“Nay, it is Mother Goodhugh. I know her walk and her tap with her stick. The old hag! I’ll go and turn her back. What does she want?”“Bah! be silent, man; she comes to see the maids—fortune-telling, or to beg for something in the way of cakes or wine. I’ll not have my plans spoiled now. Hist! what’s that?”It was a heavier foot this time, and unmistakeably Gil and a companion had arrived. Then followed the rustling of the ladder, the waiting, the signal whistle, and, when the bridge had been closed, Sir Mark’s summons to surrender.Lights flashed upon the dark scene as Sir Mark’s command rang out, and Gil saw that he and his men were far outnumbered.He stamped his foot impatiently, for, though he felt no fear of being beaten, the presence of these men might hinder the carrying out of his plans.“Surrender, you dog!” roared Sir Mark again. “In the King’s name, I say. Shoot down every man who resists.”A scornful roar of laughter was the response; and, as the heavy guns of the period were levelled, Gil’s men, lithe and active as wild cats, leaped at their bearers with their swords, dashing the guns up, so that the scattered volley that followed sent the bullets skyward, while man after man was knocked down by a blow or the recoil of the piece.Then commenced a furious fight; sword clashed with sword; there were groans, oaths, and cries; and, as Mace’s casement was opened, its occupant gazed down, shuddering at the hideous, torch-lit scene in the trampled garden.“Be ready with that ladder, Wat,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “She must be got away now at any cost. Hah! there is Sir Mark.”As he uttered the words he sprang at his rival, who had recognised him at the same moment by the flickering light of one of the torches borne by a soldier, who held it on high as he tried to take aim at Wat Kilby with a wheel-lock pistol, from beneath Mace’s window.“Surrender!” shouted Sir Mark. “Quick, here, men, here!”“Surrender yourself,” roared Gil, as with a rush he beat aside the other’s guard, closed with him, and forced him down, where he lay with Gil’s knee at his throat.Their leader’s cry, though, brought half-a-dozen men to his side, and blade in hand they would have cut down Gil had it not been for Wat, whose orders had been to stay there with the ladder. Raising this, he drove it with a crash against one man, who had raised his point, and was in the act of striking another, when Sir Mark recovered himself sufficiently to get at a dagger, which he would have plunged into his opponent, had he not felt himself scorched by a blinding glare, as he, Gil, and Wat and those by him were hurled headlong amongst the trampled bushes, and, before they could realise what had happened, there was a mighty roar, as if thunder had come from earth instead of sky, and then gone rolling across the Pool, to die away in echoes amongst the hills.
Sir Mark had not been alone in his suspicions, for the founder had had a half fancy come into his head that Gil might make some effort to prevent the marriage; and after all he could not help feeling that he would not be sorry if this were done. Now it had come so near he thought more than ever that he was doing wrong in giving his consent, for Mace’s distress seemed to be ever on the increase, and he dreaded losing his child.
“But it’s too late now,” he muttered—“too late. Matters must go on as they are, and it will be a grand and good thing for my little girl to become my lady—Dame Leslie, who will take her place at Court with the finest of them there.”
“Do you think our friend Culverin will show himself at the wedding to-morrow?” Sir Mark said.
“I cannot help thinking that he will,” said the founder.
“Well, for my part,” said Sir Mark, “I have a suspicion that we shall see him sooner—that he will make an effort to carry her off to-night.”
“Nay!” cried the founder, flushing, “he would not dare.”
“I think he would,” said Sir Mark, with a cunning smile. “Why look, man, what easier? He has followers and a vessel. Depend upon it, he will try to get our darling away to his ship.”
“If he dared to attempt such an outrage,” cried the founder, half rising from his seat; and then, as if changing his mind, he sat back thoughtfully in his chair.
“You would spit him, eh, Master Cobbe? A most worthy proceeding. But, look here, I have made my plans.”
“Plans?”
“Yes. I have, as you know, six men here, all well-armed, and to do honour to my wedding a gentleman of His Majesty’s household, a friend of mine, will be here this evening, as soon as it is dusk, with eighteen fighting-men beside. These will come unseen, when I give the signal, and be placed in ambush in the garden. I shall plant two by the open bridge, and, if our friend comes, he and his men will walk into a trap, for the moment they are over, the bridge will be closed, and thus, you see, my dear father-in-law elect, I shall rid myself of an awkward rival, and his Majesty of a band of buccaneers.
“But there will be bloodshed, and on the eve of my child’s wedding.”
“Pish!” cried Sir Mark. “Have no fear of that. Once the rats are in the trap, and they will shriek for mercy, as such ruffians and bullies always do. My dear father-in-law, you shall have the pleasure of seeing the whole band tied two and two, and marched off, when the district will be cleared.”
“And my business ruined,” said the founder.
“Trust me for that, old man,” said Sir Mark, smiling. “You shall make culverins and howitzers for his Majesty’s troops to your heart’s content, so have no fear. Powder shall you manufacture, too, but we will not talk of that. Did his Majesty know that powder was stored upon your place, ay, ever so little, he would never be your friend. But how do you like my plans?”
“Not well,” said the founder, gloomily. “I liked Gil. You rob him of the woman he meant to be his wife. Why take his liberty as well?”
“Master Cobbe, this is wretched drivel,” cried Sir Mark, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “What am I to think of it?”
“What you will,” said the founder, sullenly; “I like not my part at all.”
“And you will betray my plans?” said Sir Mark, angrily.
“Nay!” exclaimed the founder, sharply, as something of his old mien showed itself in his countenance. “Sir Mark Leslie, I am a rough yeoman of the country, but I have something of the gentleman at my heart. You insult me by your suspicions. I gave you my word, and my hand upon it, that my child should be your wife, and I repent me of it now; but Jeremiah Cobbe is not the man to go back from his word, and, sooner than Gil Carr should forcibly carry her away, I’d take him myself, and deliver him into your hand.”
“I did but jest, father,” said Sir Mark, grasping the founder’s hand. “Now, let us see something of pretty little Mace for an hour, before I perfect my plans.”
Janet was summoned, but she announced that her mistress was busy preparing things for her departure, and the girl hurried back to Mace’s room, to gloat over the silk dresses and presents that lay about.
Other messages were sent to Mace in the course of the evening, but she refused to come, and at last, out of patience, as the soft autumn night began to fall, Sir Mark went out to finish his arrangements.
“You are master, to-day, my lady,” he muttered; “to-morrow I shall rule, and you’ll know it too.”
Had Gil dared to post a man nearer to the house, he would have known of the preparations made to entrap him, though possibly they would not have kept him back. As it was he knew nothing of the well-armed soldiers who, punctual to the moment, marched across the bridge, and were rapidly disposed in suitable places by Sir Mark, who exhibited no mean generalship in his plans.
Then came the waiting, and Sir Mark stood listening with the founder by his side.
“They’ll not come,” said the latter, impatiently, after a weary while.
“Hist! there is one,” whispered Sir Mark, as a footstep cautiously crossed the bridge.
“Why it is a woman,” said the founder.
“A disguise,” replied Sir Mark. “Gil himself.”
“Nay, it is Mother Goodhugh. I know her walk and her tap with her stick. The old hag! I’ll go and turn her back. What does she want?”
“Bah! be silent, man; she comes to see the maids—fortune-telling, or to beg for something in the way of cakes or wine. I’ll not have my plans spoiled now. Hist! what’s that?”
It was a heavier foot this time, and unmistakeably Gil and a companion had arrived. Then followed the rustling of the ladder, the waiting, the signal whistle, and, when the bridge had been closed, Sir Mark’s summons to surrender.
Lights flashed upon the dark scene as Sir Mark’s command rang out, and Gil saw that he and his men were far outnumbered.
He stamped his foot impatiently, for, though he felt no fear of being beaten, the presence of these men might hinder the carrying out of his plans.
“Surrender, you dog!” roared Sir Mark again. “In the King’s name, I say. Shoot down every man who resists.”
A scornful roar of laughter was the response; and, as the heavy guns of the period were levelled, Gil’s men, lithe and active as wild cats, leaped at their bearers with their swords, dashing the guns up, so that the scattered volley that followed sent the bullets skyward, while man after man was knocked down by a blow or the recoil of the piece.
Then commenced a furious fight; sword clashed with sword; there were groans, oaths, and cries; and, as Mace’s casement was opened, its occupant gazed down, shuddering at the hideous, torch-lit scene in the trampled garden.
“Be ready with that ladder, Wat,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “She must be got away now at any cost. Hah! there is Sir Mark.”
As he uttered the words he sprang at his rival, who had recognised him at the same moment by the flickering light of one of the torches borne by a soldier, who held it on high as he tried to take aim at Wat Kilby with a wheel-lock pistol, from beneath Mace’s window.
“Surrender!” shouted Sir Mark. “Quick, here, men, here!”
“Surrender yourself,” roared Gil, as with a rush he beat aside the other’s guard, closed with him, and forced him down, where he lay with Gil’s knee at his throat.
Their leader’s cry, though, brought half-a-dozen men to his side, and blade in hand they would have cut down Gil had it not been for Wat, whose orders had been to stay there with the ladder. Raising this, he drove it with a crash against one man, who had raised his point, and was in the act of striking another, when Sir Mark recovered himself sufficiently to get at a dagger, which he would have plunged into his opponent, had he not felt himself scorched by a blinding glare, as he, Gil, and Wat and those by him were hurled headlong amongst the trampled bushes, and, before they could realise what had happened, there was a mighty roar, as if thunder had come from earth instead of sky, and then gone rolling across the Pool, to die away in echoes amongst the hills.
How the Love Philtre worked.If Mother Goodhugh had stood by while it was done, Janet the weak would have taken the decoction placed in her hands; but, foolish as the girl was, she had her share of cunning.“If I give it to her and it does make her love turn to hatred, he must turn to me; and, if after all she cares more for Captain Carr, why even then it may turn right for me. Does the old thing think I’d take the stuff? Clever as she be, others be clever too. But how shall I give it to her?”Janet took the little flask out of her bosom, which was her hiding-place for particular things—ribbons, scraps of lace, a scent-bottle wonderfully like one of Mace’s—and looked at it attentively.“A little every day,” she said; and the next morning she poured a portion into a jug that stood for drinking purposes in her mistress’s room.That afternoon Mace went up to her bedroom with a bunch of flowers from the garden, which she placed in a shallow basin, and the contents of the jug were used to keep them alive!The same evening, finding the jug empty, Janet refilled it, and again poured in a little of the contents of the flask.She had just completed her task when she heard Mace’s step upon the stairs, and in her haste to replace the stopper of the flask she let it fall upon the floor, where it broke; and she had only time to throw the broken glass out of the window, and drag a piece of carpet over the stain on the floor, before her mistress entered the room.Janet escaped as soon as possible and sought refuge in the kitchen, from whence she stole round to the garden and picked up the broken bottle, then ran back, throwing the pieces into the water-race as she hurried along.“I dare say she will have taken enough,” she said to herself, “and, if she has not, I’ll try no more. I hate myself for doing it. Poor girl, she looks more as if she was going to be buried than married.”In fact, Janet’s heart was not very deeply touched, and she would have been ready to hand over her young affections to anybody a little more eligible than Master Wat Kilby, who was rather too old for her taste. During these busy days, too, there was so much to take her attention, for she had all a girl’s love and excitement in an approaching wedding.First and foremost there came a present to her from Sir Mark in the shape of what was to her a most handsome dress.“That’s for thee, pretty Janet,” he said; “and when we come back from our wedding jaunt I’ll bring thee a handsome husband as sure as I live. One kiss for it,” he said; and he took it, and another and another. How many dozens he would have taken it is impossible to say, only the founder’s step was heard, and Janet fled with her dress by another way.“The spell be working somehow,” she said to herself joyously. “May be he will turn her over yet, and marry me himself.”She hurried up to her room to inspect her gown-piece, and smooth her ruffled hair.“Oh, these men, how wicked they be!” she cried half-petulantly, as she gazed at her flushed cheeks in a damp-stained mirror.“I be handsomer than mistress pale-face down stairs,” she cried, giving her head a toss. “Fie on her! why does she not go and wed with Captain Culverin, and leave me Sir Mark.”The gown-piece again took her attention, and she folded it in pleats and tucks, and draped herself in it, ending by doubling it over and over, and laying it flat beneath her bed.“I’ll go see her presents now,” she said; and she descended to Mace’s room to find the jug untouched.“Perhaps shell never wear these gauds after all,” muttered Janet, as she went to the dressing-table and examined the presents Sir Mark had brought, rich jewels some of them, with laces and ribbons enough for a dozen weddings; but the white satin dress hanging across a chair was the great attraction for Janet, with its puckers and folds, and great stomacher dotted with pearls.“It be brave!” she cried, as she went down upon her knees to gaze at it, and lay portions of the skirt across her arm, or feel its softness against her cheek.And so the time glided on till the eve of the wedding, when, pale and dark of eye with want of sleep, Mace felt that the excitement was more than she could bear.It was very terrible, she told herself, and again and again she asked her conscience whether she was doing wisely in listening to Gil’s prayers. It was an act of disobedience to her father, whom she dearly loved, and yet she felt that she clung to her lover more. But even now she would, in obedience to her father’s wishes, have refused Gil and remained unwed. To be forced, though, to become the wife of one whom she utterly detested she felt was impossible, and she knew that she must go.She had no one to counsel, none to take her part; and she knelt down and sobbed bitterly as she thought of the mother who had been taken away so long ago.Then rising from her knees, quite calm and peaceful at heart, she sat down in her sweet-scented old chamber waiting, for she told herself it was inevitable, and that time would soften her father’s anger, and all be happiness once more.“He feels it is for my welfare,” she said, “but he does not know poor Gil.”The whispered mention of Gil’s name sent a thrill through her, and, with a smile of hope and love upon her worn, pale face, she sat dreaming of him, and mentally praying that no mishap might accompany their flight.At last, feeling flushed and hot, she drank from the jug of water which Janet had left unchanged.There was a peculiar taste in it, but her thoughts were too much occupied to pay much attention, and, taking her seat by the window, she sat, watching the darkness coming on of this the last day in her old home.How the old happy hours of the past came back to torture her with their recollections; and now she told herself it would have been better that she should have died young, in peace and innocency, ere she knew the bitter heart-grievings of the present. For in these last hours her breast was racked by contending emotions; the love of parent fought hard with the stronger, more engrossing love of the maiden for the man of her choice, but the latter won.Agitated as she was, it seemed to her that she grew feverish and thirsty—a thirst she turned to the water-vessel more than once to assuage, but without effect; and at last, with a curious, excited sensation upon her, mingled with weariness, she went to the glass to find that her checks were flushed, and that there was a strange dilated look about her eyes, whose unusual lustre startled her.“I have had too little sleep lately,” she said, with a sad smile, as she thought of the long, restless nights she had passed; and at last she threw herself upon the bed, and closed her eyes, just as a tap was heard upon the panel of the door.“Come in, Janet,” she said, as she unclosed her eyes to gaze round at the confusion that reigned with half-packed garments, and upon a couch her wedding-dress, facing her like the flaccid shade of herself lying upon a bier.There was something very weird in that dress, and it seemed to influence her with thoughts of death which made her shudder.“I be come to try on the wedding robe again, mistress,” said Janet. “I did alter those strings and that fastening, and now it will fit you well.”“That’s kind of you, Janet,” said Mace, drowsily. “Thank you for all you have done. You will think kindly of me when I am gone?”“Why, of course, mistress. But, there, dear heart alive, don’t talk like that. Why it be as if you was going to be buried. La! You ought to be as blithe as blithe.”“Should you be, Janet?” said Mace. “Oh, my head—my head, it burns—it burns!”“La, mistress, yes; as joyous as a bird to wed with so handsome and courtly a man. Art ill, mistress?”“Sleepy, Janet, sleepy.”“There, then, let’s get on the dress, and see how you look, and then you shall have a long sleep, and I’ll see that no one disturbs you.”“No, no,” said Mace, hoarsely. “I must not sleep, child—I will not sleep. Try on the dress and go away. I shall sit by the open window.”“La, mistress, thou’lt get the ager-shakes that come off the Pool. I wouldn’t sit by the open window to-night. Come, get up, dear, and let me take off your gown. I’ll unlace it, and now we’ll have on the beautiful white robe. Lovely, lovely!”And again, “Lovely, lovely!”And then, “How beautiful you look!”And amidst it all strange reelings of the brain, her head throbbing and wild imaginings rushing through her mind. She was married and clasped in her lover’s arms, and his kisses were showered on her lips, her veins tingled, a strange thrill ran through her nerves, but his kisses burned her face, her eyes, her head. And now it was not Gil who clasped her in the ecstasy of love, but Sir Mark, and, in place of burning passion, she froze, her heart seemed to stand still, and she was numbed with horror as he approached his lips to hers. Why did he laugh so with such a strange, silent, ghastly laugh? Why did he press her so tightly to his breast? His arms hurt her, his breast was bony, and his laugh was lifeless. It was a frightful grin, and she could not tear herself away. It was not Sir Mark; it was a hideous skeleton, and she made a supreme effort to rid herself of the terrible vision that clasped her to its breast.At last it was gone, and she was dressed in her bridal robe. She was feverish and excited, and that was a kind of nightmare dream. There she was, then, before the big swing mirror, gay in satin and lace, and once more the exclamations of pleasure fell upon her ears.“How lovely! how lovely!” And again, “How beautiful you look!” The reflection in the mirror died away, for her eyes closed. She could not bear to look upon it longer, and, now that her eyes were shut, once more came the phantoms of her troubled, reeling brain. Gil, Sir Mark, the hideous shape of death, all had her clasped in their arms in turn. She struggled in spirit, but her body was motionless; the brain was in full action, but muscle and nerve were inert. She could only lie there and suffer tortures so horrible that she felt that if they lasted she must go mad.Then again she was gazing at herself in the great mirror, gay with satin and lace, and once more there was the round of horrors.How long was it to last?There was a lucid moment when she knew that she was seriously ill. Some terrible ailment had seized her, and then came the recollection of the water like a flash through her reeling brain.Was it poison?“How beautiful! It is lovely, lovely, lovely!” and there was the vision again of the satin gown.“I must be going mad,” she thought; “but Janet must not see. I will be firm and wait. I must send her away soon. Let me see,” she thought. “Gil will be here at midnight. I am not too ill to go with him, and, when once away in peace, I shall soon be well. How absurd to think of poison. How beautiful I look. This fever seems to have given me my colour once again. Poor fool! Why should I masquerade like this, when I am never to wear these things? It is time I put them off and sent her away. My poor head, my poor head! how it burns and throbs and reels with pain.”Then again, the wedding with Gil, and his hot kisses burning her face. No, it was Sir Mark; and then again the chilly horror of being seized by those arms and pressed nearer, nearer, to that hideous framework of ghastly bones, while the cold grinning teeth rested against her lips, and in place of kisses began to tear and rend her. Now it was her fair young cheek, now her soft bosom; and at every contact it was the burning pain of ice that froze with a touch like heated iron. She strove to struggle, to call for help, but it was in vain. The hideous teeth were now meeting in her forehead, and a pang of agony ran through her brain.“Gil, Gil, help me, help!” she tried to say; and then there was the clash of arms, the firing of guns, the shouts of contending men—cries, oaths, shrieks, wails. What was it? Was she really mad? Had her sufferings robbed her of reason, or was she striving to rush from the room down the broad old staircase when that hideous rush of fire, and that crash of thunder, came to tear her away? Was it madness, a dream, or was it—. Her reeling senses seemed to leave her as she asked herself the final question, when she was stricken down, even as her lips uttered the question.Was it death?
If Mother Goodhugh had stood by while it was done, Janet the weak would have taken the decoction placed in her hands; but, foolish as the girl was, she had her share of cunning.
“If I give it to her and it does make her love turn to hatred, he must turn to me; and, if after all she cares more for Captain Carr, why even then it may turn right for me. Does the old thing think I’d take the stuff? Clever as she be, others be clever too. But how shall I give it to her?”
Janet took the little flask out of her bosom, which was her hiding-place for particular things—ribbons, scraps of lace, a scent-bottle wonderfully like one of Mace’s—and looked at it attentively.
“A little every day,” she said; and the next morning she poured a portion into a jug that stood for drinking purposes in her mistress’s room.
That afternoon Mace went up to her bedroom with a bunch of flowers from the garden, which she placed in a shallow basin, and the contents of the jug were used to keep them alive!
The same evening, finding the jug empty, Janet refilled it, and again poured in a little of the contents of the flask.
She had just completed her task when she heard Mace’s step upon the stairs, and in her haste to replace the stopper of the flask she let it fall upon the floor, where it broke; and she had only time to throw the broken glass out of the window, and drag a piece of carpet over the stain on the floor, before her mistress entered the room.
Janet escaped as soon as possible and sought refuge in the kitchen, from whence she stole round to the garden and picked up the broken bottle, then ran back, throwing the pieces into the water-race as she hurried along.
“I dare say she will have taken enough,” she said to herself, “and, if she has not, I’ll try no more. I hate myself for doing it. Poor girl, she looks more as if she was going to be buried than married.”
In fact, Janet’s heart was not very deeply touched, and she would have been ready to hand over her young affections to anybody a little more eligible than Master Wat Kilby, who was rather too old for her taste. During these busy days, too, there was so much to take her attention, for she had all a girl’s love and excitement in an approaching wedding.
First and foremost there came a present to her from Sir Mark in the shape of what was to her a most handsome dress.
“That’s for thee, pretty Janet,” he said; “and when we come back from our wedding jaunt I’ll bring thee a handsome husband as sure as I live. One kiss for it,” he said; and he took it, and another and another. How many dozens he would have taken it is impossible to say, only the founder’s step was heard, and Janet fled with her dress by another way.
“The spell be working somehow,” she said to herself joyously. “May be he will turn her over yet, and marry me himself.”
She hurried up to her room to inspect her gown-piece, and smooth her ruffled hair.
“Oh, these men, how wicked they be!” she cried half-petulantly, as she gazed at her flushed cheeks in a damp-stained mirror.
“I be handsomer than mistress pale-face down stairs,” she cried, giving her head a toss. “Fie on her! why does she not go and wed with Captain Culverin, and leave me Sir Mark.”
The gown-piece again took her attention, and she folded it in pleats and tucks, and draped herself in it, ending by doubling it over and over, and laying it flat beneath her bed.
“I’ll go see her presents now,” she said; and she descended to Mace’s room to find the jug untouched.
“Perhaps shell never wear these gauds after all,” muttered Janet, as she went to the dressing-table and examined the presents Sir Mark had brought, rich jewels some of them, with laces and ribbons enough for a dozen weddings; but the white satin dress hanging across a chair was the great attraction for Janet, with its puckers and folds, and great stomacher dotted with pearls.
“It be brave!” she cried, as she went down upon her knees to gaze at it, and lay portions of the skirt across her arm, or feel its softness against her cheek.
And so the time glided on till the eve of the wedding, when, pale and dark of eye with want of sleep, Mace felt that the excitement was more than she could bear.
It was very terrible, she told herself, and again and again she asked her conscience whether she was doing wisely in listening to Gil’s prayers. It was an act of disobedience to her father, whom she dearly loved, and yet she felt that she clung to her lover more. But even now she would, in obedience to her father’s wishes, have refused Gil and remained unwed. To be forced, though, to become the wife of one whom she utterly detested she felt was impossible, and she knew that she must go.
She had no one to counsel, none to take her part; and she knelt down and sobbed bitterly as she thought of the mother who had been taken away so long ago.
Then rising from her knees, quite calm and peaceful at heart, she sat down in her sweet-scented old chamber waiting, for she told herself it was inevitable, and that time would soften her father’s anger, and all be happiness once more.
“He feels it is for my welfare,” she said, “but he does not know poor Gil.”
The whispered mention of Gil’s name sent a thrill through her, and, with a smile of hope and love upon her worn, pale face, she sat dreaming of him, and mentally praying that no mishap might accompany their flight.
At last, feeling flushed and hot, she drank from the jug of water which Janet had left unchanged.
There was a peculiar taste in it, but her thoughts were too much occupied to pay much attention, and, taking her seat by the window, she sat, watching the darkness coming on of this the last day in her old home.
How the old happy hours of the past came back to torture her with their recollections; and now she told herself it would have been better that she should have died young, in peace and innocency, ere she knew the bitter heart-grievings of the present. For in these last hours her breast was racked by contending emotions; the love of parent fought hard with the stronger, more engrossing love of the maiden for the man of her choice, but the latter won.
Agitated as she was, it seemed to her that she grew feverish and thirsty—a thirst she turned to the water-vessel more than once to assuage, but without effect; and at last, with a curious, excited sensation upon her, mingled with weariness, she went to the glass to find that her checks were flushed, and that there was a strange dilated look about her eyes, whose unusual lustre startled her.
“I have had too little sleep lately,” she said, with a sad smile, as she thought of the long, restless nights she had passed; and at last she threw herself upon the bed, and closed her eyes, just as a tap was heard upon the panel of the door.
“Come in, Janet,” she said, as she unclosed her eyes to gaze round at the confusion that reigned with half-packed garments, and upon a couch her wedding-dress, facing her like the flaccid shade of herself lying upon a bier.
There was something very weird in that dress, and it seemed to influence her with thoughts of death which made her shudder.
“I be come to try on the wedding robe again, mistress,” said Janet. “I did alter those strings and that fastening, and now it will fit you well.”
“That’s kind of you, Janet,” said Mace, drowsily. “Thank you for all you have done. You will think kindly of me when I am gone?”
“Why, of course, mistress. But, there, dear heart alive, don’t talk like that. Why it be as if you was going to be buried. La! You ought to be as blithe as blithe.”
“Should you be, Janet?” said Mace. “Oh, my head—my head, it burns—it burns!”
“La, mistress, yes; as joyous as a bird to wed with so handsome and courtly a man. Art ill, mistress?”
“Sleepy, Janet, sleepy.”
“There, then, let’s get on the dress, and see how you look, and then you shall have a long sleep, and I’ll see that no one disturbs you.”
“No, no,” said Mace, hoarsely. “I must not sleep, child—I will not sleep. Try on the dress and go away. I shall sit by the open window.”
“La, mistress, thou’lt get the ager-shakes that come off the Pool. I wouldn’t sit by the open window to-night. Come, get up, dear, and let me take off your gown. I’ll unlace it, and now we’ll have on the beautiful white robe. Lovely, lovely!”
And again, “Lovely, lovely!”
And then, “How beautiful you look!”
And amidst it all strange reelings of the brain, her head throbbing and wild imaginings rushing through her mind. She was married and clasped in her lover’s arms, and his kisses were showered on her lips, her veins tingled, a strange thrill ran through her nerves, but his kisses burned her face, her eyes, her head. And now it was not Gil who clasped her in the ecstasy of love, but Sir Mark, and, in place of burning passion, she froze, her heart seemed to stand still, and she was numbed with horror as he approached his lips to hers. Why did he laugh so with such a strange, silent, ghastly laugh? Why did he press her so tightly to his breast? His arms hurt her, his breast was bony, and his laugh was lifeless. It was a frightful grin, and she could not tear herself away. It was not Sir Mark; it was a hideous skeleton, and she made a supreme effort to rid herself of the terrible vision that clasped her to its breast.
At last it was gone, and she was dressed in her bridal robe. She was feverish and excited, and that was a kind of nightmare dream. There she was, then, before the big swing mirror, gay in satin and lace, and once more the exclamations of pleasure fell upon her ears.
“How lovely! how lovely!” And again, “How beautiful you look!” The reflection in the mirror died away, for her eyes closed. She could not bear to look upon it longer, and, now that her eyes were shut, once more came the phantoms of her troubled, reeling brain. Gil, Sir Mark, the hideous shape of death, all had her clasped in their arms in turn. She struggled in spirit, but her body was motionless; the brain was in full action, but muscle and nerve were inert. She could only lie there and suffer tortures so horrible that she felt that if they lasted she must go mad.
Then again she was gazing at herself in the great mirror, gay with satin and lace, and once more there was the round of horrors.
How long was it to last?
There was a lucid moment when she knew that she was seriously ill. Some terrible ailment had seized her, and then came the recollection of the water like a flash through her reeling brain.
Was it poison?
“How beautiful! It is lovely, lovely, lovely!” and there was the vision again of the satin gown.
“I must be going mad,” she thought; “but Janet must not see. I will be firm and wait. I must send her away soon. Let me see,” she thought. “Gil will be here at midnight. I am not too ill to go with him, and, when once away in peace, I shall soon be well. How absurd to think of poison. How beautiful I look. This fever seems to have given me my colour once again. Poor fool! Why should I masquerade like this, when I am never to wear these things? It is time I put them off and sent her away. My poor head, my poor head! how it burns and throbs and reels with pain.”
Then again, the wedding with Gil, and his hot kisses burning her face. No, it was Sir Mark; and then again the chilly horror of being seized by those arms and pressed nearer, nearer, to that hideous framework of ghastly bones, while the cold grinning teeth rested against her lips, and in place of kisses began to tear and rend her. Now it was her fair young cheek, now her soft bosom; and at every contact it was the burning pain of ice that froze with a touch like heated iron. She strove to struggle, to call for help, but it was in vain. The hideous teeth were now meeting in her forehead, and a pang of agony ran through her brain.
“Gil, Gil, help me, help!” she tried to say; and then there was the clash of arms, the firing of guns, the shouts of contending men—cries, oaths, shrieks, wails. What was it? Was she really mad? Had her sufferings robbed her of reason, or was she striving to rush from the room down the broad old staircase when that hideous rush of fire, and that crash of thunder, came to tear her away? Was it madness, a dream, or was it—. Her reeling senses seemed to leave her as she asked herself the final question, when she was stricken down, even as her lips uttered the question.
Was it death?
How Gil brought the Bride from the Burning House.For a few moments Gil’s men and the followers of Sir Mark stood appalled by the effects of the explosion. Fully one-half had been prostrated by the terrible blast that had swept the beautiful old garden, cutting down tree and shrub as level as if with a knife. Some of the men lay groaning where they had been cast, burned, wounded, and disfigured; while those who were uninjured, of whichever side, seemed as if by mutual consent to consider their petty strife at an end in the face of so awful a catastrophe, and, sheathing their swords, stood looking at the ruined house before them, confused and unmanned by the shock.For to a man the explosion had so shaken them that a curious feeling of helplessness had succeeded to the energy they had displayed, and no one moved even to render assistance to the wounded.Suddenly a loud voice shouted—“Run, my lads, run! There will be another explosion directly. It is a plot to blow up the place.”This seemed to break the spell, and there was a rush of feet towards the closed bridge, when the founder’s voice arose.“No, no,” he cried; “there can be no other explosion. It was my store; I thought it safe; the powder has all—”He stopped speaking, and reeled and nearly fell to the earth, for he had received a blow from a falling beam; but he recovered himself sufficiently to point towards the house in an appealing way that no one understood.“Halt there!” cried Sir Mark, who now rose to his feet, from where he had been thrown, “follow me some of you, quick, before it is too late.”He might well add these last words, for, as the smoke rose like a heavy pall above the ruined house, it could be seen that, with the exception of a couple of the gables near where they stood, the place was shattered and nearly razed to the ground. There was a huge hole here, another cavernous rent there, and, piled above them, beams and rafters, blackened, smoking, and dotted with glowing embers, which began to sparkle as the portion of the house now standing burned furiously.There was no need for light, for wood had entered largely into the construction of the building, and the powder seemed to have prepared everything to burn. With a rush great tongues of fire leaped from the embayment of the fine old parlour, whose diamond panes flew crackling out, while the lead in which they were set trickled down in a silvery stream. The whole of the parlour glowed in a few seconds like a furnace, and directly after the fire sprang forth from the two rooms above, and then again from the little window in the pointed gable, which was soon being licked from gutter to the copper vane on its summit by the orange and golden flames.The rooms on either side rapidly followed, and soon the two gables that had remained after the explosion seemed wrapped in fire, which lit up the unscathed trees, and turned the lake as if into a pool of blood.As Sir Mark sprang forward, a dozen men ran to his side—Gil’s men, every one of them, for his own stood aloof; but as they went close up a rush of flame and smoke drove them back, scathing and scorching them so that it was impossible to face it.“A ladder—a ladder—fetch a ladder!” cried Sir Mark.The words were hardly uttered, before a couple of men picked up that which Wat Kilby had used as a weapon, and to which he still tightly clung, as he lay at some little distance, where he had been cast.This was dragged from him, and a couple of men reared it, by Sir Mark’s directions, against the burning casement of Mace’s room.Seizing the rounds Sir Mark climbed up, and reached the room, now all aglow, but as he felt the scorching flames, which were already burning the top of the short ladder, he rapidly descended and stood wringing his hands, while Gil’s men seized poles, fetched buckets from a shed, and began to obtain water from the race.“It is impossible! My poor girl! What shall I do?” moaned Sir Mark.Then to the men nearest he shouted, his voice sounding shrill and strange amidst the roar and flutter of the flames, “There is a lady in yonder—a hundred golden pounds to the man who fetches her out.”There was a murmur amongst the little crowd, but no one stirred, and he repeated his offer.“Are you men to stand there and see her burned to death?” he cried. “Two hundred pounds to the man who saves Mistress Mace Cobbe.”“Damn your two hundred pound,” cried a hoarse voice, as a great gaunt blackened figure crawled into the glow. “Up the ladder, my lads, there be two women there.”“Old Wat,” cried the men, in a loud chorus of excitement, as the weird looking figure stretched out its hands, and seemed to grope blindly towards the ladder, but rolled down with a groan, utterly unable to make the attempt, having received some injury to the hip.“Is there no man here who will try to save the helpless women?” cried Sir Mark. “That’s right, my brave lad,” he said, as one of Gil’s men took a hatchet from his belt and ran up the burning ladder.He seemed to beat back the flames with his hands, and bravely climbed in at the window, a roar of cheers following him, as he regularly leaped into the burning room. Then there was a shower of sparks, a rush of flame, and, to the horror of all present, the brave fellow was seen to literally roll out of the parlour casement, blackened and burned, having fallen at once through the floor to the room below.“No one can be there and live,” he gasped. “Water, boys, water! I am burning: throw me in,” he shrieked; and one of his companions deluged him with the contents of a bucket.“It is all over. How horrible—how horrible!” groaned Sir Mark. “Quick lads, water, dash it in. Who is that?”He started back almost in fear, as he saw Gil stride forward, pick up the fallen axe, and seize the ladder to drag it from the burning casement.As he did so he staggered, for he was quite giddy yet from the blow he had received when the explosion cast him some twenty feet away; but he recovered directly, and, planting the ladder against the next window, he seemed to regain his strength, and dashed up axe in hand.There was a lusty cheer at this, and Sir Mark gnashed his teeth, as he wondered why he had not thought of going up to the next window, where the flames seemed to burn less furiously, though the next instant they were pouring out from the shattered window beneath, and making the long trailing strands of roses and woodbine writhe and twine as if in agony, as the flames licked them up, and then seemed to wreathe themselves around the figure of Gilbert Carr.With two vigorous blows, he dashed in the oaken divisions of the window, and as he struck the flames leaped into his face, wrapping round him; but he seemed to heed them not, for blow after blow fell, till he cleared the way, and then, leaving the burning ladder, he climbed right in, and a dead silence fell upon all present as he disappeared amidst the flames and smoke, which came rolling out more furiously than ever.No man spoke for a while, as the fire crackled, and the tiles on the old house slipped, and fell rattling down. The copper vane suddenly began to burn in the intense heat with a vivid blue light like some firework. The ladder, which had stood out dark against the flaming windows, gradually burned till rounds and sides were so much glowing charcoal, and a dull sense of horror chilled to inaction the spectators of the gallant deed.Suddenly Wat Kilby raised himself up on his knees, supporting his injured body with one hand, and lifting the other to wave above his head.“His father’s son!” he yelled, as the fire glistened in his wild eyes and blackened hairless face, for his grisly beard was scorched away—“his father’s son—a Carr!—a Carr!—Culverin for ever! Fetch him out brave boys—a rescue—a rescue! Forward boys—Board!”As he yelled out these words, they seemed to electrify his followers, and with a shout the crew dashed to the burning house as if about to plunge in.There was no hesitation now, not a man flinched, but, leaping in through the lower burning window, the ladder fell in so many glowing fragments amidst the feet of the foremost, who disappeared for a few brief moments, and then re-appeared with Gil Carr, bearing out through the flames a figure that seemed to be clad in gold, so glistening and yellow seemed the satin dress, with its stomacher of pearls.The men drew back from him as Gil bore his burden on towards what had once been the shady lawn of the garden, and laid it reverently down, tearing a handkerchief from his breast to cover the ghastly mutilation of the face, and then crushing out as he knelt the smouldering flames and sparks that had attacked the wedding-dress.“Mace, my darling!” cried Sir Mark, passionately.“Back!” cried Gil, fiercely; “touch her not, upon your life.”Sir Mark shrank away, appalled by the fierce gaze of the man who knelt there upon one knee, reverently arranging the garments round the dead, whom he had found comparatively untouched by the flames, but pinioned and crushed by a fallen beam. He heeded not his own sufferings, though those who stood by could see that the doublet he wore was falling from his breast in pieces; that the leather of his belt and boots had crumpled up in the intense heat; and that his hands and face were horribly scorched.“Let me see her, let me see her,” cried a harsh voice, and the little crowd parted to let Wat Kilby crawl forward. “Is it Janet? Tell me, brave boys, is it my lass? The cursed powder has taken away my sight. Tell me, brave boys, is it my little, bright, tricksy Janet?”“No, no, no,” moaned a piteous voice; “it is my child—my darling child. Oh, Mace, Mace, joy of my poor old heart, has it come to this?”There was so piteous an appeal in these words—so intense, so terrible was the suffering they betokened—that the men drew back as the founder staggered to the side of the dead, let himself fall upon his knees, and there crouched with his hands clasped together in his lap, gazing helplessly down.The remains of the Pool-house burned brightly still; the flames licked up rafter and beam; the red-hot tiles cracked and splintered and fell with a crash from time to time, sending up a whirlwind of sparks; and the blaze that lit up the Pool and forest far and near made plain, as if seen by day, the piteous group on the old lawn. But no one heeded the fire now, or dreamed of there being danger of the flying embers setting light to one or other of the powder sheds. Every thought was turned to the bereaved father; and as Sir Mark stood there, among his followers and the workpeople, one of the few unscathed by the fire, he found himself, bridegroom-elect although he had been, a person apparently of very secondary import, for next to Jeremiah Cobbe men and women gazed upon Gil Carr.Just then the founder raised one of his trembling hands and stretched it out to reach the kerchief Gil had so lovingly placed over the mutilated face, but the latter stayed him.“No, no,” he said in a low voice, “for your own sake no. Let us remember our darling as she was.”The old man’s hand closed upon the scorched palm, and then he laid the other upon it and held it, gazing piteously in the other’s face.“Right, Gil,” he said in a cracked voice. “Right! Let us rememberourdarling as she was.”There was a pause here, and a beam fell in the burning house, causing a whirlwind of sparks to rise.“Forgive me, Gil,” continued the founder. “Even if this hand did slay Abel Churr, the fire has purged it. Brave boy—brave boy! I was very hard on both!”“Over her who lies here I swear I am innocent of that man’s blood,” said Gil softly; and then in a lower tone, “My darling—my darling—you believed my words.”“And so do I, Gil,” cried the old man piteously. “Oh, my child, my child! God in heaven, how have I sinned that I should suffer this?”A shudder ran through the crowd, so wild and piercing suddenly rose the old man’s upbraiding cry, while like an echo to his words came a shrill, harsh voice from the direction of the ruins, where, on a heap of smouldering wood and stones, stood Mother Goodhugh, like a black silhouette against the flames.“Woe to the wicked house! Woe to the maker of deadly grains! Woe to the caster of cannon and culverin and gun!”There was a dead silence, and then, amidst the crackling of the blazing wood and the fluttering of the flames, rose once more the voice of Mother Goodhugh, as she gesticulated and waved her stick.“What did I say? What did I foretell against this evil man and his house? Did I not cry, it was cursed, and that the curse would fall? Look at the wicked place! And now once more I raise up my voice, and tell thee that a curse will fall on him or her who touches stick or stone to try and raise it up again. Let it burn—let it be level with the earth, and become a refuge for snakes and toads and unclean things. Let no man try to build it up, or be he cursed as well.”“Silence, hag!” cried Sir Mark passionately.“Nay,” she cried, “I will not hold my peace. Go thou, young man, and rejoice that thou art saved from to-morrow—saved from wedding to the daughter of one whom I had cursed. Who doubts the power of Mother Goodhugh now? Speak, Jeremiah Cobbe, did I not foretell the ruin of thy house?”“My poor child. My little love—where are thy pretty sayings now, where thy prattling ways? Little Mace—pretty little Mace! How old is she to-day, mother?” said the founder, gazing at vacancy, with a smile, for the old woman’s words had not reached his ears. “Six, eh? six. Why what a great age for my darling to have grown. Gil, my boy, God bless thee, lad! You have grown stout and well again, and I look to thee to protect my little one from harm. There, you must love her; take thy little sister; keep her from the pool, and mind her pretty little feet don’t stray near the water side. Hey, boy, did’st ever see such bonny little feet, so white and pink, and pretty, it seems a sin to put them into leather shoes. Be good to her, my brave stout lad, and some day—who knows?—thou may’st perhaps like to make her thy own little wife. If thou dost, ha, ha, ha! she shall not disgrace thee, boy, for she shall be a very lady in her way.”He looked round with a vacant smile, and nodded pleasantly at Gil.“Cursed! I tell thee—cursed!” cried Mother Goodhugh. “It has been a long time coming, but it has come at length. Look how it smokes and burns. Didst hear the noise the devilish powder made? Ha! ha! ha! That which he made to destroy others has destroyed himself. Burn, flames, burn!” she cried, waving her stick; “burn wood and stones, and burn until all is level with the dust!”The crowd stood round her at a respectful distance listening to her ravings, and had she been the wise woman she professed to be, she would have known where to stop and beat a hasty retreat, with a great increase, among the simple people, to her reputation. But it was not to be.Just then, borne in a lumbering carriage that this time had brayed all the ruts, up came Sir Thomas Beckley, with Mistress Anne and Master Peasegood.The old woman caught sight of Anne Beckley as she descended hastily from the carriage, and approached her with a malicious, triumphant look.Just then the jealous girl caught sight of the prostrate body in its wedding-dress, and seemed petrified.“What did I say—what did I say?” cried a voice behind her, and turning she encountered Mother Goodhugh’s malignant eyes.This was too much for Anne, who crept shuddering away, when the burning house, the kneeling figure by the dead, the whole scene seemed to swim round her, and she would have fallen but for Sir Mark, who caught her in his arms.“Oh, it is too dreadful—too dreadful!” she murmured, and closed her eyes.“Master Peasegood, will you take him to your house?” said Gil. “Poor soul! the shock has been too heavy for his brain.”“Eh! Go with Master Peasegood? Yes,” said the founder smiling. “Gil, brave lad, you’ll see that my darling does not come to harm.”Gil bowed his head, and as the founder rose from his knees smiling and ready to accompany the parson, down whose cheeks the great tears coursed, Mother Goodhugh climbed on a heap of stones, waving her hands wildly as she saw her enemy pass.“Woe to him; woe to his house!” she shrieked excitedly.“Silence that vile witch’s mouth,” cried Sir Thomas.“A witch, a witch!” cried a voice; and Wat Kilby, who had dragged himself up once more upon his hands and knees, waved one hand again towards the burning ruins, which had just burst forth into fiercer flames.“A witch—a witch!” he yelled, “away with her, and let her burn.”A shout rose from Sir Mark’s followers, and, with a rush, they surrounded the old woman, who struck at them with her stick as she was seized. Then, in spite of her shrieks and appeals, she was borne towards the burning ruins.The burning of a witch was so congenial an occupation, that, failing a great triumph over Gil Carr’s crew, the followers of Sir Mark took to their task with such gusto that in another minute Mother Goodhugh would have been hurled into the flames.It was in Anne Beckley’s power to save her by a quick appeal to Sir Mark; but she hesitated, for the thought flashed across her mind that, Mother Goodhugh dead, she would carry with her many secrets, and, above all, the greatest one, of how this terrible affair had been brought about. It might have been accident; but she had her doubts.Sir Thomas looked on in puzzled guise. He knew he ought to do or say something, but without his clerk he was generally at sea, while Master Peasegood, who might have given him good advice, had gone off, leading the stricken father to his home.It was Gil who interfered, and none too soon.Springing up from where he had knelt on one knee, he threw himself before the would-be executioners.“Shame on you!” he cried; and the men stopped, short, while Mother Goodhugh struggled from them to throw herself on the earth and cling to Gil’s knees.“Save, oh, save me!” she shrieked; “I cannot die.”“What are you, that you interfere?” cried one of the men.“A witch—a witch—to the flames,” cried Wat Kilby, in his harsh voice.“Silence, old dog!” roared Gil.“In with her, lads!” cried the first of the men, seizing Mother Goodhugh by the shoulder; but, as she shrieked with horror, the man went down from a blow given by Gil’s clenched hand, which the next moment sought his sword, to find it gone.With a shout, the others closed round Gil, but this roused his own followers, who ran up and dragged Mother Goodhugh away. They faced Sir Mark’s men, and, weapons being drawn, there was an imminent risk of a renewal of the fight, when Sir Thomas’s fat voice was heard, sounding weak and tremulous, for the baronet was terribly alarmed.“Stop! my good men,” he cried; “you must not burn her until she has been tried. A woman suspected of witchcraft must—er—er—must—er—er—be taken before—er—er—the nearest justice of the peace—er—er—er—that is me, you see, and—”“Escape without a word,” whispered Gil to the old woman. “I’ll cover your flight.”“Bless thee for—”“Keep thy blessings and thy curses,” said Gil, sternly. “Go.”Mother Goodhugh shrank trembling away, the village people and the workers opening to let her pass, while, when Sir Mark’s men advanced to try and retake her, they were met by the swords of Gil’s crew.“Don’t; pray don’t let them fight,” whispered Anne in agony.“Is this a seemly time for a fresh encounter, Sir Mark?” said Gil.“Not if you give yourself up,” was the reply. “I give up—to you?” said Gil. “Let who interferes with me and my men do so at his peril. This way, my lads,” he cried. “There is a cloak behind yon shed. It was meant for thee, sweet,” he whispered, as he bent down over the dead, “to keep thee from the cold;” and upon its being brought, the lifeless figure, in its wedding-dress, was reverently lifted and borne into Tom Croftly’s house.Sir Mark concluded to engage in no further encounter that night, telling himself that he could easily take Gil another time. So, calling off his men, he allowed him to superintend the removing of the lifeless girl, Anne Beckley now following trembling into the cottage, awe-stricken as she was at being in the presence of death, while, when at last day broke and the bright sun rose, it was upon a heap of ashes smouldering and smoking still. Where the pleasant old garden had been alive with verdure, teeming fruit-trees, and autumn flowers, was a space of trampled blackened soil, while for fifty yards round the trees had been scorched and stripped not only of their leaves, but of every minor twig and spray.Sir Mark scowled angrily again and again at Gil, and his men gave the sailors many a menacing look, as they took upon themselves the duty of keeping watch by the house where the poor girl lay.It was Gil’s men, too, who tried to search the ashes of the Gabled House for the remains of poor Janet, the only other occupant of the building; but the task was given up, on its being found that the intense heat had fused metal, and reduced the stones so that they crumbled at the touch.
For a few moments Gil’s men and the followers of Sir Mark stood appalled by the effects of the explosion. Fully one-half had been prostrated by the terrible blast that had swept the beautiful old garden, cutting down tree and shrub as level as if with a knife. Some of the men lay groaning where they had been cast, burned, wounded, and disfigured; while those who were uninjured, of whichever side, seemed as if by mutual consent to consider their petty strife at an end in the face of so awful a catastrophe, and, sheathing their swords, stood looking at the ruined house before them, confused and unmanned by the shock.
For to a man the explosion had so shaken them that a curious feeling of helplessness had succeeded to the energy they had displayed, and no one moved even to render assistance to the wounded.
Suddenly a loud voice shouted—
“Run, my lads, run! There will be another explosion directly. It is a plot to blow up the place.”
This seemed to break the spell, and there was a rush of feet towards the closed bridge, when the founder’s voice arose.
“No, no,” he cried; “there can be no other explosion. It was my store; I thought it safe; the powder has all—”
He stopped speaking, and reeled and nearly fell to the earth, for he had received a blow from a falling beam; but he recovered himself sufficiently to point towards the house in an appealing way that no one understood.
“Halt there!” cried Sir Mark, who now rose to his feet, from where he had been thrown, “follow me some of you, quick, before it is too late.”
He might well add these last words, for, as the smoke rose like a heavy pall above the ruined house, it could be seen that, with the exception of a couple of the gables near where they stood, the place was shattered and nearly razed to the ground. There was a huge hole here, another cavernous rent there, and, piled above them, beams and rafters, blackened, smoking, and dotted with glowing embers, which began to sparkle as the portion of the house now standing burned furiously.
There was no need for light, for wood had entered largely into the construction of the building, and the powder seemed to have prepared everything to burn. With a rush great tongues of fire leaped from the embayment of the fine old parlour, whose diamond panes flew crackling out, while the lead in which they were set trickled down in a silvery stream. The whole of the parlour glowed in a few seconds like a furnace, and directly after the fire sprang forth from the two rooms above, and then again from the little window in the pointed gable, which was soon being licked from gutter to the copper vane on its summit by the orange and golden flames.
The rooms on either side rapidly followed, and soon the two gables that had remained after the explosion seemed wrapped in fire, which lit up the unscathed trees, and turned the lake as if into a pool of blood.
As Sir Mark sprang forward, a dozen men ran to his side—Gil’s men, every one of them, for his own stood aloof; but as they went close up a rush of flame and smoke drove them back, scathing and scorching them so that it was impossible to face it.
“A ladder—a ladder—fetch a ladder!” cried Sir Mark.
The words were hardly uttered, before a couple of men picked up that which Wat Kilby had used as a weapon, and to which he still tightly clung, as he lay at some little distance, where he had been cast.
This was dragged from him, and a couple of men reared it, by Sir Mark’s directions, against the burning casement of Mace’s room.
Seizing the rounds Sir Mark climbed up, and reached the room, now all aglow, but as he felt the scorching flames, which were already burning the top of the short ladder, he rapidly descended and stood wringing his hands, while Gil’s men seized poles, fetched buckets from a shed, and began to obtain water from the race.
“It is impossible! My poor girl! What shall I do?” moaned Sir Mark.
Then to the men nearest he shouted, his voice sounding shrill and strange amidst the roar and flutter of the flames, “There is a lady in yonder—a hundred golden pounds to the man who fetches her out.”
There was a murmur amongst the little crowd, but no one stirred, and he repeated his offer.
“Are you men to stand there and see her burned to death?” he cried. “Two hundred pounds to the man who saves Mistress Mace Cobbe.”
“Damn your two hundred pound,” cried a hoarse voice, as a great gaunt blackened figure crawled into the glow. “Up the ladder, my lads, there be two women there.”
“Old Wat,” cried the men, in a loud chorus of excitement, as the weird looking figure stretched out its hands, and seemed to grope blindly towards the ladder, but rolled down with a groan, utterly unable to make the attempt, having received some injury to the hip.
“Is there no man here who will try to save the helpless women?” cried Sir Mark. “That’s right, my brave lad,” he said, as one of Gil’s men took a hatchet from his belt and ran up the burning ladder.
He seemed to beat back the flames with his hands, and bravely climbed in at the window, a roar of cheers following him, as he regularly leaped into the burning room. Then there was a shower of sparks, a rush of flame, and, to the horror of all present, the brave fellow was seen to literally roll out of the parlour casement, blackened and burned, having fallen at once through the floor to the room below.
“No one can be there and live,” he gasped. “Water, boys, water! I am burning: throw me in,” he shrieked; and one of his companions deluged him with the contents of a bucket.
“It is all over. How horrible—how horrible!” groaned Sir Mark. “Quick lads, water, dash it in. Who is that?”
He started back almost in fear, as he saw Gil stride forward, pick up the fallen axe, and seize the ladder to drag it from the burning casement.
As he did so he staggered, for he was quite giddy yet from the blow he had received when the explosion cast him some twenty feet away; but he recovered directly, and, planting the ladder against the next window, he seemed to regain his strength, and dashed up axe in hand.
There was a lusty cheer at this, and Sir Mark gnashed his teeth, as he wondered why he had not thought of going up to the next window, where the flames seemed to burn less furiously, though the next instant they were pouring out from the shattered window beneath, and making the long trailing strands of roses and woodbine writhe and twine as if in agony, as the flames licked them up, and then seemed to wreathe themselves around the figure of Gilbert Carr.
With two vigorous blows, he dashed in the oaken divisions of the window, and as he struck the flames leaped into his face, wrapping round him; but he seemed to heed them not, for blow after blow fell, till he cleared the way, and then, leaving the burning ladder, he climbed right in, and a dead silence fell upon all present as he disappeared amidst the flames and smoke, which came rolling out more furiously than ever.
No man spoke for a while, as the fire crackled, and the tiles on the old house slipped, and fell rattling down. The copper vane suddenly began to burn in the intense heat with a vivid blue light like some firework. The ladder, which had stood out dark against the flaming windows, gradually burned till rounds and sides were so much glowing charcoal, and a dull sense of horror chilled to inaction the spectators of the gallant deed.
Suddenly Wat Kilby raised himself up on his knees, supporting his injured body with one hand, and lifting the other to wave above his head.
“His father’s son!” he yelled, as the fire glistened in his wild eyes and blackened hairless face, for his grisly beard was scorched away—“his father’s son—a Carr!—a Carr!—Culverin for ever! Fetch him out brave boys—a rescue—a rescue! Forward boys—Board!”
As he yelled out these words, they seemed to electrify his followers, and with a shout the crew dashed to the burning house as if about to plunge in.
There was no hesitation now, not a man flinched, but, leaping in through the lower burning window, the ladder fell in so many glowing fragments amidst the feet of the foremost, who disappeared for a few brief moments, and then re-appeared with Gil Carr, bearing out through the flames a figure that seemed to be clad in gold, so glistening and yellow seemed the satin dress, with its stomacher of pearls.
The men drew back from him as Gil bore his burden on towards what had once been the shady lawn of the garden, and laid it reverently down, tearing a handkerchief from his breast to cover the ghastly mutilation of the face, and then crushing out as he knelt the smouldering flames and sparks that had attacked the wedding-dress.
“Mace, my darling!” cried Sir Mark, passionately.
“Back!” cried Gil, fiercely; “touch her not, upon your life.”
Sir Mark shrank away, appalled by the fierce gaze of the man who knelt there upon one knee, reverently arranging the garments round the dead, whom he had found comparatively untouched by the flames, but pinioned and crushed by a fallen beam. He heeded not his own sufferings, though those who stood by could see that the doublet he wore was falling from his breast in pieces; that the leather of his belt and boots had crumpled up in the intense heat; and that his hands and face were horribly scorched.
“Let me see her, let me see her,” cried a harsh voice, and the little crowd parted to let Wat Kilby crawl forward. “Is it Janet? Tell me, brave boys, is it my lass? The cursed powder has taken away my sight. Tell me, brave boys, is it my little, bright, tricksy Janet?”
“No, no, no,” moaned a piteous voice; “it is my child—my darling child. Oh, Mace, Mace, joy of my poor old heart, has it come to this?”
There was so piteous an appeal in these words—so intense, so terrible was the suffering they betokened—that the men drew back as the founder staggered to the side of the dead, let himself fall upon his knees, and there crouched with his hands clasped together in his lap, gazing helplessly down.
The remains of the Pool-house burned brightly still; the flames licked up rafter and beam; the red-hot tiles cracked and splintered and fell with a crash from time to time, sending up a whirlwind of sparks; and the blaze that lit up the Pool and forest far and near made plain, as if seen by day, the piteous group on the old lawn. But no one heeded the fire now, or dreamed of there being danger of the flying embers setting light to one or other of the powder sheds. Every thought was turned to the bereaved father; and as Sir Mark stood there, among his followers and the workpeople, one of the few unscathed by the fire, he found himself, bridegroom-elect although he had been, a person apparently of very secondary import, for next to Jeremiah Cobbe men and women gazed upon Gil Carr.
Just then the founder raised one of his trembling hands and stretched it out to reach the kerchief Gil had so lovingly placed over the mutilated face, but the latter stayed him.
“No, no,” he said in a low voice, “for your own sake no. Let us remember our darling as she was.”
The old man’s hand closed upon the scorched palm, and then he laid the other upon it and held it, gazing piteously in the other’s face.
“Right, Gil,” he said in a cracked voice. “Right! Let us rememberourdarling as she was.”
There was a pause here, and a beam fell in the burning house, causing a whirlwind of sparks to rise.
“Forgive me, Gil,” continued the founder. “Even if this hand did slay Abel Churr, the fire has purged it. Brave boy—brave boy! I was very hard on both!”
“Over her who lies here I swear I am innocent of that man’s blood,” said Gil softly; and then in a lower tone, “My darling—my darling—you believed my words.”
“And so do I, Gil,” cried the old man piteously. “Oh, my child, my child! God in heaven, how have I sinned that I should suffer this?”
A shudder ran through the crowd, so wild and piercing suddenly rose the old man’s upbraiding cry, while like an echo to his words came a shrill, harsh voice from the direction of the ruins, where, on a heap of smouldering wood and stones, stood Mother Goodhugh, like a black silhouette against the flames.
“Woe to the wicked house! Woe to the maker of deadly grains! Woe to the caster of cannon and culverin and gun!”
There was a dead silence, and then, amidst the crackling of the blazing wood and the fluttering of the flames, rose once more the voice of Mother Goodhugh, as she gesticulated and waved her stick.
“What did I say? What did I foretell against this evil man and his house? Did I not cry, it was cursed, and that the curse would fall? Look at the wicked place! And now once more I raise up my voice, and tell thee that a curse will fall on him or her who touches stick or stone to try and raise it up again. Let it burn—let it be level with the earth, and become a refuge for snakes and toads and unclean things. Let no man try to build it up, or be he cursed as well.”
“Silence, hag!” cried Sir Mark passionately.
“Nay,” she cried, “I will not hold my peace. Go thou, young man, and rejoice that thou art saved from to-morrow—saved from wedding to the daughter of one whom I had cursed. Who doubts the power of Mother Goodhugh now? Speak, Jeremiah Cobbe, did I not foretell the ruin of thy house?”
“My poor child. My little love—where are thy pretty sayings now, where thy prattling ways? Little Mace—pretty little Mace! How old is she to-day, mother?” said the founder, gazing at vacancy, with a smile, for the old woman’s words had not reached his ears. “Six, eh? six. Why what a great age for my darling to have grown. Gil, my boy, God bless thee, lad! You have grown stout and well again, and I look to thee to protect my little one from harm. There, you must love her; take thy little sister; keep her from the pool, and mind her pretty little feet don’t stray near the water side. Hey, boy, did’st ever see such bonny little feet, so white and pink, and pretty, it seems a sin to put them into leather shoes. Be good to her, my brave stout lad, and some day—who knows?—thou may’st perhaps like to make her thy own little wife. If thou dost, ha, ha, ha! she shall not disgrace thee, boy, for she shall be a very lady in her way.”
He looked round with a vacant smile, and nodded pleasantly at Gil.
“Cursed! I tell thee—cursed!” cried Mother Goodhugh. “It has been a long time coming, but it has come at length. Look how it smokes and burns. Didst hear the noise the devilish powder made? Ha! ha! ha! That which he made to destroy others has destroyed himself. Burn, flames, burn!” she cried, waving her stick; “burn wood and stones, and burn until all is level with the dust!”
The crowd stood round her at a respectful distance listening to her ravings, and had she been the wise woman she professed to be, she would have known where to stop and beat a hasty retreat, with a great increase, among the simple people, to her reputation. But it was not to be.
Just then, borne in a lumbering carriage that this time had brayed all the ruts, up came Sir Thomas Beckley, with Mistress Anne and Master Peasegood.
The old woman caught sight of Anne Beckley as she descended hastily from the carriage, and approached her with a malicious, triumphant look.
Just then the jealous girl caught sight of the prostrate body in its wedding-dress, and seemed petrified.
“What did I say—what did I say?” cried a voice behind her, and turning she encountered Mother Goodhugh’s malignant eyes.
This was too much for Anne, who crept shuddering away, when the burning house, the kneeling figure by the dead, the whole scene seemed to swim round her, and she would have fallen but for Sir Mark, who caught her in his arms.
“Oh, it is too dreadful—too dreadful!” she murmured, and closed her eyes.
“Master Peasegood, will you take him to your house?” said Gil. “Poor soul! the shock has been too heavy for his brain.”
“Eh! Go with Master Peasegood? Yes,” said the founder smiling. “Gil, brave lad, you’ll see that my darling does not come to harm.”
Gil bowed his head, and as the founder rose from his knees smiling and ready to accompany the parson, down whose cheeks the great tears coursed, Mother Goodhugh climbed on a heap of stones, waving her hands wildly as she saw her enemy pass.
“Woe to him; woe to his house!” she shrieked excitedly.
“Silence that vile witch’s mouth,” cried Sir Thomas.
“A witch, a witch!” cried a voice; and Wat Kilby, who had dragged himself up once more upon his hands and knees, waved one hand again towards the burning ruins, which had just burst forth into fiercer flames.
“A witch—a witch!” he yelled, “away with her, and let her burn.”
A shout rose from Sir Mark’s followers, and, with a rush, they surrounded the old woman, who struck at them with her stick as she was seized. Then, in spite of her shrieks and appeals, she was borne towards the burning ruins.
The burning of a witch was so congenial an occupation, that, failing a great triumph over Gil Carr’s crew, the followers of Sir Mark took to their task with such gusto that in another minute Mother Goodhugh would have been hurled into the flames.
It was in Anne Beckley’s power to save her by a quick appeal to Sir Mark; but she hesitated, for the thought flashed across her mind that, Mother Goodhugh dead, she would carry with her many secrets, and, above all, the greatest one, of how this terrible affair had been brought about. It might have been accident; but she had her doubts.
Sir Thomas looked on in puzzled guise. He knew he ought to do or say something, but without his clerk he was generally at sea, while Master Peasegood, who might have given him good advice, had gone off, leading the stricken father to his home.
It was Gil who interfered, and none too soon.
Springing up from where he had knelt on one knee, he threw himself before the would-be executioners.
“Shame on you!” he cried; and the men stopped, short, while Mother Goodhugh struggled from them to throw herself on the earth and cling to Gil’s knees.
“Save, oh, save me!” she shrieked; “I cannot die.”
“What are you, that you interfere?” cried one of the men.
“A witch—a witch—to the flames,” cried Wat Kilby, in his harsh voice.
“Silence, old dog!” roared Gil.
“In with her, lads!” cried the first of the men, seizing Mother Goodhugh by the shoulder; but, as she shrieked with horror, the man went down from a blow given by Gil’s clenched hand, which the next moment sought his sword, to find it gone.
With a shout, the others closed round Gil, but this roused his own followers, who ran up and dragged Mother Goodhugh away. They faced Sir Mark’s men, and, weapons being drawn, there was an imminent risk of a renewal of the fight, when Sir Thomas’s fat voice was heard, sounding weak and tremulous, for the baronet was terribly alarmed.
“Stop! my good men,” he cried; “you must not burn her until she has been tried. A woman suspected of witchcraft must—er—er—must—er—er—be taken before—er—er—the nearest justice of the peace—er—er—er—that is me, you see, and—”
“Escape without a word,” whispered Gil to the old woman. “I’ll cover your flight.”
“Bless thee for—”
“Keep thy blessings and thy curses,” said Gil, sternly. “Go.”
Mother Goodhugh shrank trembling away, the village people and the workers opening to let her pass, while, when Sir Mark’s men advanced to try and retake her, they were met by the swords of Gil’s crew.
“Don’t; pray don’t let them fight,” whispered Anne in agony.
“Is this a seemly time for a fresh encounter, Sir Mark?” said Gil.
“Not if you give yourself up,” was the reply. “I give up—to you?” said Gil. “Let who interferes with me and my men do so at his peril. This way, my lads,” he cried. “There is a cloak behind yon shed. It was meant for thee, sweet,” he whispered, as he bent down over the dead, “to keep thee from the cold;” and upon its being brought, the lifeless figure, in its wedding-dress, was reverently lifted and borne into Tom Croftly’s house.
Sir Mark concluded to engage in no further encounter that night, telling himself that he could easily take Gil another time. So, calling off his men, he allowed him to superintend the removing of the lifeless girl, Anne Beckley now following trembling into the cottage, awe-stricken as she was at being in the presence of death, while, when at last day broke and the bright sun rose, it was upon a heap of ashes smouldering and smoking still. Where the pleasant old garden had been alive with verdure, teeming fruit-trees, and autumn flowers, was a space of trampled blackened soil, while for fifty yards round the trees had been scorched and stripped not only of their leaves, but of every minor twig and spray.
Sir Mark scowled angrily again and again at Gil, and his men gave the sailors many a menacing look, as they took upon themselves the duty of keeping watch by the house where the poor girl lay.
It was Gil’s men, too, who tried to search the ashes of the Gabled House for the remains of poor Janet, the only other occupant of the building; but the task was given up, on its being found that the intense heat had fused metal, and reduced the stones so that they crumbled at the touch.