There was a look of resignation on the father’s face, as he gazed in his son’s eyes and slowly shook his head.
“Ahoy, there! Drinkwater! Ahoy! What are you hinging back there for?” shouted the north-country man. “More wuck to do. Come on and help.”
All eyes were directed now to a solitary figure standing on the top of the great stone wall as if inspecting the damaged spot.
“What’s he stopping there for?” cried the Vicar, excitedly.
“Why, Drinkwater, my lad,” shouted Willows, between his hands, “you can’t stay there. Come over to us here. Quick, man! Quick!”
The old fellow turned and shaded his eyes again, gazing fiercely at the speaker, and, as he lowered his hand and came slowly towards them, Will noticed that across his white brow there was a broad mark of blood.
“Father, look,” he whispered, hoarsely; “what does that mean?”
“A mark from his hands, my boy. He must have worn them raw. Poor fellow! He has been like a hero in this strife.”
The man came down, still slowly, and then ascended to where the group were awaiting further orders; but when these orders came, and with a rush the workers formed a line from the mill up to a shelf-like path where by no possibility could the pent-up water rise if the dam gave way, and began handing up rapidly bale after bale of finished silk, and mighty skeins of twisted thread, he did not stir a hand, but stood with the stain upon his brow, leaning against a corner of the mill, apparently exhausted, and never once taking his eyes from his master.
For a full hour the men worked on, cheering loudly as the announcement was made that the wareroom was empty; and then a rush was made for the Mill House, where in turn all that was portable and good was borne away. Then came the end.