“Right, Gil,” he said in a cracked voice. “Right! Let us remember our darling as she was.”
There was a pause here, and a beam fell in the burning house, causing a whirlwind of sparks to rise.
“Forgive me, Gil,” continued the founder. “Even if this hand did slay Abel Churr, the fire has purged it. Brave boy—brave boy! I was very hard on both!”
“Over her who lies here I swear I am innocent of that man’s blood,” said Gil softly; and then in a lower tone, “My darling—my darling—you believed my words.”
“And so do I, Gil,” cried the old man piteously. “Oh, my child, my child! God in heaven, how have I sinned that I should suffer this?”
A shudder ran through the crowd, so wild and piercing suddenly rose the old man’s upbraiding cry, while like an echo to his words came a shrill, harsh voice from the direction of the ruins, where, on a heap of smouldering wood and stones, stood Mother Goodhugh, like a black silhouette against the flames.
“Woe to the wicked house! Woe to the maker of deadly grains! Woe to the caster of cannon and culverin and gun!”
There was a dead silence, and then, amidst the crackling of the blazing wood and the fluttering of the flames, rose once more the voice of Mother Goodhugh, as she gesticulated and waved her stick.
“What did I say? What did I foretell against this evil man and his house? Did I not cry, it was cursed, and that the curse would fall? Look at the wicked place! And now once more I raise up my voice, and tell thee that a curse will fall on him or her who touches stick or stone to try and raise it up again. Let it burn—let it be level with the earth, and become a refuge for snakes and toads and unclean things. Let no man try to build it up, or be he cursed as well.”
“Silence, hag!” cried Sir Mark passionately.