Gil looked at him angrily, and then at Mace, whose glance disarmed him once again.
“As you will, Master Cobbe,” he said. “Some day perhaps you may regret this harshness to so old a friend. Mace, as I am to be dismissed, good-bye till we meet again—in better times.”
He advanced and held out his hand, but Sir Mark, who was near her, interposed.
“Stand back, sir,” he said; “no man with such a suspicion resting upon him shall touch Mistress Cobbe’s hand.”
Gil seized him by the shoulder, and with one swing hurled him aside.
“Your hand, Mace Cobbe,” he said, holding out his own, in which she laid hers for a few moments, before hurrying to her father’s side.
A dead silence had fallen on the group, and as Gil turned to go he felt that appearances were sadly against him, though it would be vain to say more then. Striding across the foundry he made for the open door, angry even unto passion, but helpless under the pressure of opinion. He was not prepared for the fresh reverse that he encountered, as, after turning to exchange a fierce glance with Sir Mark, which said plainly enough, “We shall meet again,” he was half startled by finding his way barred by Mother Goodhugh, who was standing in the doorway, full in the red light cast by the furnace.
He drew back as the old woman moved her stick and stepped into the building.
“Is he to be screened?” she cried aloud. “I say, is he to be screened? Your friend, Master Cobbe—the friend of your child—the man you mean to make your son. I say, is he to be screened?”
“Hold thy prate,” cried the founder, angrily. “Mother Goodhugh, I am in no humour to listen to thee now.”