How the Powder had its Say.
Sir Mark had not been alone in his suspicions, for the founder had had a half fancy come into his head that Gil might make some effort to prevent the marriage; and after all he could not help feeling that he would not be sorry if this were done. Now it had come so near he thought more than ever that he was doing wrong in giving his consent, for Mace’s distress seemed to be ever on the increase, and he dreaded losing his child.
“But it’s too late now,” he muttered—“too late. Matters must go on as they are, and it will be a grand and good thing for my little girl to become my lady—Dame Leslie, who will take her place at Court with the finest of them there.”
“Do you think our friend Culverin will show himself at the wedding to-morrow?” Sir Mark said.
“I cannot help thinking that he will,” said the founder.
“Well, for my part,” said Sir Mark, “I have a suspicion that we shall see him sooner—that he will make an effort to carry her off to-night.”
“Nay!” cried the founder, flushing, “he would not dare.”
“I think he would,” said Sir Mark, with a cunning smile. “Why look, man, what easier? He has followers and a vessel. Depend upon it, he will try to get our darling away to his ship.”
“If he dared to attempt such an outrage,” cried the founder, half rising from his seat; and then, as if changing his mind, he sat back thoughtfully in his chair.
“You would spit him, eh, Master Cobbe? A most worthy proceeding. But, look here, I have made my plans.”