“In time!” cried the founder; “what do you mean? There, no more.”
As he spoke he turned and hurried out of the powder-shed, and past two or three more, to enter at last one of the stone buildings, where the casting was carried on; but Gil stuck to his heels, following him closely without noticing Sir Mark, who, on catching sight of him, raised a finger as a signal to one of his men.
“You will not sell poor Mace like this,” cried Gil, as the founder turned upon him as if at bay. “Master Cobbe, for both our sakes, pause while there is yet time.”
“Out upon thee, Gil Carr; thou maddenest me!” cried the founder. “Yet time? What do you mean by speaking to me like this? Am I not my own master?”
“Yes,” replied Gil, humbly; “and this is why I appeal.”
“Why you rebel against me, you should say,” cried the founder, passionately. “What am I to understand that you mean by ‘yet time’?”
“I mean before it is too late,” said Gil, speaking humbly and imploringly as he forced himself into making this last appeal, before venturing on an act that was repugnant to him, and which on calmer consideration he would have avoided for Mace’s sake.
“Gil Carr!” cried the founder, furiously, “go thy way, and let me go mine. I will not be dictated to by the man who has come like a blight upon my threshold. Like a treacherous adder, thou hast stung the hand that warmed thee back to life. Coward—villain—thou could’st do nothing better than set thy snares to trap my weak child. Now go, or—”
He raised his hand and dropped it again.
“For heaven’s sake, listen to me!” cried Gil, excitedly. “Master Cobbe, I would be an honourable gentleman for my father’s sake, to thee and thine, but you drive me to despair.”