The smoke rose slowly over the face of the cliff, showing the grey and blackened traces where the fire had blasted bush and tree; while, where the large block of sandstone had lain was now a dark opening, the rock having been lifted right away, reft in twain, and thrown some yards down the slope.
“There, skipper,” growled Wat, as he limped along, and the men came up; “there be not a cask split inside I’ll wager, and a few showers of rain will hide all the marks.”
Gil nodded.
“Four of you bring the old woman along,” he said. “We’ll make her a bed inside. Good God!”
He was startled at what he saw, for the explosion seemed to have roused Mother Goodhugh, who came crawling painfully towards them to raise herself upon her knees and point, and struggle to speak.
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Powder, powder—the cursed stuff. Cobbe’s work; Cobbe’s work. He slew my dear with it, and now—ha, ha, ha! I have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here.”
Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it, as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly grotesque.
“Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped—that wedding—Mistress Anne—the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did—I stopped it. Do you hear? I got the key—the powder-cellar, and laid a train—a long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the garden—there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder,” she panted, pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled.
“I did it—I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me—all of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark’s men—and then I struck with my flint and steel—and the fire—ran along the ground—and the powder blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and—and—why is it daylight? Why does the sun shine?” she continued, gazing wildly from one to the other.
“She’s daft,” growled Wat. “Poor soul! they have frightened away her wits.”