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.