“Confound you, fool,” cried Sir Mark, leaping from his restive steed; and as he spoke his eyes rested upon Gil. “Have a care how you fire. Your blundering nearly cost worshipful Sir Thomas Beckley his life.”
Gil met his eye with a cold stare of defiance that made the hot blood dance in the other’s veins.
“It was I who fired the shell, Sir Mark,” said the founder, curtly; “and it were well when I am trying my pieces if visitors gave notice of their coming.”
“I came, sir, on the King’s business,” said Sir Mark, sharply; “and so ride where and when I will! I trust thou art not hurt, Sir Thomas.”
The worthy baronet felt for his hat, which was gone, and with it his Sunday plume, as, evidently congratulating himself that he was safe on earth again and free of his frightened steed, he raised his fat eyelids a little wider, and gaped like a fish, opening his lips and shutting them without a sound.
“See,” he continued, “the worthy justice is hurt. I ask your pardon, Mistress Mace, but I was concerned for Sir Thomas. Will you help me to lead him into the house—with your permission, Master Cobbe.”
“Permission?” cried the founder. “There, sir, leave your ceremony in town when you come to see me. Sir Thomas, I am sorry our firing startled your good nag: come in and drink a cup of wine, and you’ll be all right in a twinkling.”
Sir Thomas wanted to be dignified, and refuse, but at the same time he felt ready to give his ears for a glass of wine. He was shaken, bruised, and his nerve had gone; in fact he had given himself over for a dead man, when his horse stopped beside the group of workmen; so, sinking his dignity, he followed the founder across the little bridge and into the house, Sir Mark following, with Mace, who knew that she must be at hand to play the hostess.
Just then a couple of Sir Mark’s followers,—half soldiers, half servants,—cantered up, and, seeing at a glance that no harm was done, threw themselves from their horses, and, pitching the reins to the nearest workmen, strutted and stared about in a condescending way, as if the rusticity of the place and people was highly amusing to their London minds.
Gil leaned with his back against the gun, gazing after those who entered the house; and a feeling of bitterness came over him as he recalled the fact that the next day he sailed on a voyage that might take him three, four, or five months, and he would have to go and leave the woman he loved exposed to the persecutions of this man.