“Nay!” exclaimed the founder, sharply, as something of his old mien showed itself in his countenance. “Sir Mark Leslie, I am a rough yeoman of the country, but I have something of the gentleman at my heart. You insult me by your suspicions. I gave you my word, and my hand upon it, that my child should be your wife, and I repent me of it now; but Jeremiah Cobbe is not the man to go back from his word, and, sooner than Gil Carr should forcibly carry her away, I’d take him myself, and deliver him into your hand.”
“I did but jest, father,” said Sir Mark, grasping the founder’s hand. “Now, let us see something of pretty little Mace for an hour, before I perfect my plans.”
Janet was summoned, but she announced that her mistress was busy preparing things for her departure, and the girl hurried back to Mace’s room, to gloat over the silk dresses and presents that lay about.
Other messages were sent to Mace in the course of the evening, but she refused to come, and at last, out of patience, as the soft autumn night began to fall, Sir Mark went out to finish his arrangements.
“You are master, to-day, my lady,” he muttered; “to-morrow I shall rule, and you’ll know it too.”
Had Gil dared to post a man nearer to the house, he would have known of the preparations made to entrap him, though possibly they would not have kept him back. As it was he knew nothing of the well-armed soldiers who, punctual to the moment, marched across the bridge, and were rapidly disposed in suitable places by Sir Mark, who exhibited no mean generalship in his plans.
Then came the waiting, and Sir Mark stood listening with the founder by his side.
“They’ll not come,” said the latter, impatiently, after a weary while.
“Hist! there is one,” whispered Sir Mark, as a footstep cautiously crossed the bridge.
“Why it is a woman,” said the founder.