“Yes, you can manage that, Dan,” said Mark thoughtfully.
“Better than any one else, my lad, and that aren’t boasting. Look here, Master Mark; I’ve been having it over with the lads, and we all think the same. The Darleys are about as bad a lot as ever stepped, and they’ve done us a lot o’ wrong, and deserved all we could give ’em, but they aren’t deserved this, and we are going to forgive ’em a bit. Who’s going to stand still and see a lot o’ ragged rapscallions come and attack our enemies, and try to take that castle? It aren’t to be borne, Master Mark; now is it?”
“No, Dan, it is not to be borne.”
“Right, sir. I’ve heered everything now: how they’d took the castle, and was wineing and beering theirselves, and going to stop there, when Nick Garth—ah! I do mort’ly hate that fellow—sets fire to the place, and burns ’em out. Makes me feel as if I could half forgive him all old scores. My pick! It was a fine idea.”
“A grand idea, Dan.”
“And don’t you see, Master Mark, as they missed getting Cliff Castle, they’ll just wait their time, and catch us napping, and get this place.”
“Never,” cried Mark hotly.
“Never, it is, Master Mark. Me and the lads’ll blow the old place up first.”
“Mark, my boy,” cried Sir Edward just then; “here, I want you.”
The lad hurried to his father’s side, and a strong hand was clapped upon his shoulder, Sir Edward looking him full in the face, but with his eyes thoughtful and fixed.