“But stop, man, the ball will go to the bottom of the Pool, and I want you to hit yon ragged oak.”
“So I shall,” cried Gil, taking aim. “Give me leave, and you shall see.”
“There,” he said, when he had adjusted the piece to his satisfaction, “that will about do. Now, Wat, ready with that linstock. What are you looking at, man?”
Wat Kilby, whose eyes had been fixed on Janet staring out of the window, uttered a low growl, and lit the linstock.
“Now, Master Cobbe,” cried Gil, “do you feel satisfied that the piece is safe?”
“My life upon it,” cried the founder.
“Nay,” said Gil, gently; “it is thy child’s life.”
The founder frowned, and was about to speak hastily, but he refrained.
“Thou art right, friend Gil,” he said; “but have no fear, the piece is made of my toughest stuff. Come, my child, be ready with the linstock.”
Gil’s countenance betrayed his uneasiness; and, to give him confidence, Mace let her eyes meet his, with a calm, loving look, as she mastered her dread and horror, took the burning linstock, and stood ready near the breech.