“My good fellow, have the kindness to listen to me,” said Sir Mark.
“Good fellow, eh!” cried Cobbe, flushing again, and smiting the table with his fist. “But there, go on, sir, go on; you are a messenger to me from the King.”
“His Majesty,” said Sir Mark, leaning back in his chair, and half-closing his eyes, as he gazed imperiously at the other, “has had it brought to his knowledge that you, Jeremiah Cobbe, of Roehurst, in the county of Sussex.”
“Right,” said the other nodding.
”—Have for years past, and in divers manners, carried on here a forge for cannon castings.”
“I have, and of the best and toughest iron ever smelted in the south. His Majesty never heard of one of my pieces bursting.”
“That you also carry on some works wherein, without leave or licence, you make largely that dangerous and deadly material known as gunpowder.”
“Dangerous, and deadly too,” chuckled the bluff yeoman, “if it gets into foolish hands. It’s true enough, and my best dogwood charcoal makes the strongest powder to be had.”
“A material which his Majesty holds in utter abhorrence and detestation, ever since his devilish and malignant enemies, aided and abetted by Popish treasonable priests, essayed to destroy the Houses of Parliament and kill and slay his most sacred person.”
“No wonder, sir,” chuckled Cobbe. “Enough to make any man abhor powder. But hark ye, one barrel of mine would have been enough to shake the place about their ears.”