There was something very strange and hollow that night in the sound of the rushing stream; and, as Gil stood leaning against a tree, the falling water seemed now distant, dying away in sighs; now close at hand, rolling down with a thunderous bass. If he had been asked why it affected him, he could not have said; but its deep notes sounded then like a portent of mishap. He remembered it afterwards so well, for every incident of that memorable evening seemed to be burned into his brain, and he had but to lean over the side of his ship and gaze away into the depths of air and sea to have all come vividly back as if the events were then taking place.
Hour after hour glided by and there was no interruption, nothing to disturb the solitude. From time to time Gil walked back to the oak, but only to find his men well on the alert, and that the sentries had nothing to report. There was scarcely any talking, no drinking, and no smoking, for his people were in earnest to do everything possible to carry out their leader’s plans. Even Wat Kilby contented himself with sucking quietly at his empty pipe and glancing round at every man in turn to see that the rules were kept.
Hardly a word had passed between Wat and his leader, for the old man was in dudgeon. He had had his shrewd suspicions that Gil intended to carry off Mace that night, and he had come to the conclusion that his duty was to take Janet at the same time. To his anger and disgust, though, he found that this was strictly forbidden, and earlier in the day a sharp verbal contest had ensued.
“Why can’t I take her abroad?” he growled. “You’re going to have a priest, and I want a wife same as other men.”
“Once for all, Wat,” said Gil, sternly; “I will have no paltering with the work I have on hand. Will you obey me and work to the end for my scheme?”
“Why, of course I will,” grumbled the old fellow, “but I don’t see why as—”
“Not another word!” cried Gil. “But what I says is this, skipper: Thou’st got a priest—”
“Silence, sir; how dare you!” roared Gil; and the old man shrank away to pull out his little pipe, and begin sucking at it viciously, jerking his long body about, and acting generally as if he had a volcanic eruption going on within him, the safety-valve to which was an explosion of muttered words now and then, which escaped after a kind of quake that shook him like a spasm from top to toe.
All the same, though, Wat made no further resistance to his leader’s will, but with the energy of a long tried, well-disciplined follower, he worked away at the various preparations, and was as obedient as a dog.
As Gil stood thinking in the wood, he once more went over his plans, wondering whether there would be an encounter with Sir Mark’s followers, and then smiling grimly to himself, as he half wished there might be, and thought of how he would like once more to stand face to face with the man who was so nearly robbing him of her whom he had always looked upon as his very own.