“I fear no officers of justice,” cried Gil, angrily; “and I presume Sir Mark is too much of a gentleman to shelter himself behind their staves.”
“But you need fear them,” cried the founder angrily. “What is this I hear of Abel Churr?”
“What has he dared to tell?” cried Gil, forgetting himself for the moment.
“Men with mute lips tell nought,” said the founder. “Where is Abel Churr?”
“I know not,” replied Gil.
“Nay, but you should know,” continued the founder, as Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone came panting in from an unsuccessful search. “Tom Croftly, tell what you heard. Abel Churr was an idle raff, but he was a man, and one of us here.”
As he spoke Mace’s countenance changed, and she drew nearer to Gil.
“I don’t know much, master,” said the foundryman slowly, “only that seven days ago I saw Abel Churr half drunken, and he was boasting that he knew a secret of the captain’s there which would hang him if it was known.”
“He must have told you, too, Father Brisdone,” said Master Peasegood, quickly.
“Abel Churr did confess to me when I encountered him in the woods, Brother Peasegood, but the words uttered in confession are sacred. I cannot tell.”