“I trust you, my son. Go, and my blessing be with you. I shall make the little cabin a chapel, where I shall pass the time in prayer for your success.”
“And then, father, a chapel where you make her mine by ties that none can break.”
“Amen, my son, amen!” said Father Brisdone; and they parted, the father to follow his guide down the valley, and Gil to lead his men through one of the forest tracks in the direction of Roehurst Pool, Wat and the other watchers closing in behind.
The advance was made with caution to within a mile of the foundry, where, beneath a spreading oak, Gil called a halt, and cast his eyes over his party of twenty sturdy, well-armed men, every one of whom could handle his weapon well.
“That will do, my lads,” he said in his quick, imperious way. “Now lie down, and eat and rest. Silence, every man; not a word above a whisper. Goodsell, Kingley, two hundred paces each of you along the track. A good look—out, and a quick whistle, if so much as a berry-hunting child approach.”
His orders were carried out, and then with the soft autumn evening rapidly drawing nigh, Gil also went out through the forest to watch and listen for the approach of footsteps that might end in the discovery of his men.
How Gil and his Men drew Sword.
The hours glided slowly by, and the soft damp of night scented the forest with its peculiar odours,—of decaying leaves, swift-growing fungi, and mouldering wood. Ever and again a leaf that had hung lightly by its dying stalk became so laden with dew that it fell pattering down with a noise that seemed startlingly loud in the silence of the time.
Borne on the sighing breeze that whispered through the branches above came, rising and falling, the rushing sound of falling water, as the swift stream dashed past the front of the founder’s house, and hurried towards the huge wheel, but only to be turned aside to sweep with a sudden plunge into the lower hole.