Sir Mark felt in anything but the best of tempers upon finding how
thoroughly at home the stout parson of Roehurst was at the Pool-house.
He had taken a dislike to him from the first, and the idea of his
sharing the table with them at the next meal filled him with disgust.
However, with all a courtier's skill in hiding his own feelings, he
smiled in reply to the founder's remarks, and tried to interest himself
in the process before him.
It needed little effort, for, as a soldier, he could readily appreciate
the shape and make of a good piece of artillery; and, setting aside all
thought of Mace for the time being, he eagerly scanned the interior of
the furnace-house.
"What do you mean by all this, Master Cobbe?" he said, pleasantly. "I
am sent down here to reprimand you, and give an ample report on what I
see, and, after the first sharp encounter, I find you treat me as the
best of friends. You give me your daughter's society; you talk to me of
your works; and now you are about to show me the secrets of your trade."
"And welcome," cried the founder, bluffly. "See all, learn all, and
tell all, for I have nought to conceal. My powder is good, and my guns
are good; but that is from skill, of which no one can rob me, or take
away. Any man can make powder or cast cannon, but few can do these
things well. There, my lad, once for all, don't you shrink from making
what report you will. You will not offend me. But come, we are about
to begin."
Sir Mark glanced round at the bright glow which lit up the whole place,
and then at the furnace-mouth, from whose chinks a dazzling white light
shone out, seeming to cut the darkness with long, thin rays, which
struck the wall and the smoke-blackened, oaken beams that supported the
roof, while it illumined the floor sufficiently to enable the visitor to
see the dim figures of a couple of men, who were busy stooping over
something in the middle of the building.
This he felt was the mould, and into it he knew that ere long the
furnace-door would be vomiting the molten metal in a dazzling state, so
bright that his eyes would hardly be able to bear the glare. He did not
speak, for the roar made by the vast bellows, whose air was burning away
the impurities of the iron, was almost deafening, and he could see that
a good deal of the work was earned on by signs.
"A good time for a _tete-a-tete_ with little Mace," he muttered, as he
saw the founder slip off his doublet and roll the linen shirt up over
his muscular arms. Then the knight took the place pointed out to him as
one likely to be out of harm's way, and watched with eager interest the
busy scene around.
Now the furnace was being urged to greater heat, and the vivid flames
and sparks rushed out into the sunshine; then the founder was seen to
stand right in the intense glare, and evidently throw in some ingredient
upon the molten metal which seemed to seethe and bubble, and rise in the
furnace as if about to overflow, while dazzling flames of violet,
orange, and silver-white danced over the molten mass, and formed, with
the silvery scintillations, a scene that riveted the courtier's eye.
As he gazed upon the weird-looking figures, half glowing in the light,
half-hidden in the darkness, or others whose heads or bodies alone were
seen in the strong glow of the furnaces, there was an unreality in the
scene that sent a thrill through him.
"I would that big-tongued Jamie were here," he muttered, "coming upon it
all by night and gazing in at yon window; he'd think he had come upon a
demon's feast, and that the saints of Pandemonium were cooking
hell-broth for all the witches and wizards of the land."
A shout from the founder roused him from his musings, and he shaded his
eyes with his hands, and watched the furnace, whose light now grew more
silvery every moment, and whose fluttering flames seemed to be more full
of wondrous dyes. The light was sharper and more defined, and in the
darkness below, where there were tiny points of light, shewing that
there were crevices in the firebricks, Sir Mark could make out the
figure of the founder standing with a great iron bar in his hands.
Suddenly a door was opened, and the founder was seen to be plunging the
long bar into the molten metal, when once more vivid beams of light
flashed out, mingled with coruscations of sparks, which darted here and
there in fierce battle as if contending together, exploding with a loud
crackling noise as they met.
Then once more the door was shut, and Sir Mark closed his eyes, which
ached with the glare. The moment after he opened them to gaze upon the
weird scene, as one after the other there came a series of loud strokes
as of iron upon iron, and then from a bright star in the middle of the
darkness, low down near the floor, a stream of pure liquid silver seemed
to run, passing rapidly along the floor and suddenly disappearing.
Quicker and quicker it seemed to gush out, with dazzling flames dancing
over it as it sped along. The whole building now was glorious with
light, and seemed transformed; beams, rugged stone walls, flooring, all
were glistening as if suddenly coated with silver and gold; and as, with
parted lips and eager eyes, the founder's guest gazed upon the scene,
and thought of how glorious was a cannon's birth, there was a sudden
crash as if heaven and earth had come together; he was struck backwards,
hurled as it were against the wall behind, and then, finding himself
close to a window-opening, half fell, half dropped out into the open air
to stagger away amidst the _debris_ of broken tiles and wood that had
fallen around.
He knew he was not hurt, but he felt confused and dazed as men from
various parts ran up, women from the distant cottages came shrieking,
and the occupants of the furnace-house, now roofless and smoking,
staggered out panting and blackened, to look eagerly round at one
another.
"My father--where is my father?" cried Mace, running up wild-eyed and
pale.
There was no reply, and, without a moment's hesitation, she ran over the
broken fragments of stone and wood lying about, to the arched door, and
stepped in amidst the blinding smoke and reeking steam.
"Stop! oh, stop," cried Sir Mark. "Good heavens, men, she will lose her
life."
Roused by his words, a couple of the men ran after the excited girl, but
only reached the door as the founder came out looking blackened and half
stunned, leaning upon his daughter's arm.
"I can't see any one there," he cried, as soon as he was out, and he
began looking round at his men. "Are you all here, my lads?"
The men gazed at one another as if for the first time it had occurred to
them that they ought to count their number, and at last, as Master
Peasegood repeated the question, out of breath with his exertions to get
there, some one exclaimed:
"We be all here, Master."
"Then help me to a flagon of ale, Mace," cried the founder.
"But father, dear, you are hurt; you are burned. Quick, some one, help
get him to the house."
"Nay, nay, child, I'm not much hurt, and, as no one else is, loose my
arm. Where's that Tom Croftly?"
"Here I be, master," said a gruff voice, and a grim, half-naked man,
with the chest of a giant, came trembling forward, wiping the reek and
sweat from his brow.
"You clumsy, bull-headed fool," roared the founder, dashing at him and
delivering so sturdy a blow from his stalwart arm that the man staggered
back, tried to recover himself, and then fell heavily, to sit up slowly
the next moment, applying his hand to his cut forehead and gazing
meditatively at the blood.
"You bean't going to stand that, Tom Croftly," whispered one who was
bending over him. "Get up and pook him well, if you bean't a coward."
The foundryman gazed in Abel Churr's foxy eyes, and shook his head.
"Nay, nay, the master's right enough, though he did hit hard. I ought
to ha' looked after the trade."
"What are you doing there, Abel Churr?" cried the ironfounder. "Here,
Mace, lass, fetch me that ale."
"What am I doing here, Mas' Cobbe?" said the adder-hunter, as Mace ran
off, satisfied now that her father was not hurt. "I heard the blowing
up, and I knew some one would be burned, so I came. You'll want a bit
of adder's fat for them burns, Mas' Cobbe."
"Out with thy trash!" cried the founder, angrily. "Here, you Tom
Croftly, rise up and I'll smite you down again."
The great fellow began to rise slowly, with the obedience of a dog, but
the parson interposed:--
"Nay, nay, Master Cobbe; thou hast done enough beating."
"The master's quite right," said the foundryman; "I ought to have looked
after the trade."
"Right! Yes, you dolt!" cried Cobbe, angrily. "Have I not told you all
a hundred times that every mould must be quite dry? and here you let me
run the iron into one that must be half full of water."
"I see to it all two hours ago, master," said the foundryman; "and it
was bravely dry, but I ought to have looked again, only somehow Mother
Goodhugh coming put it out of my head."
"And what did Mother Goodhugh come to you for?" said the founder,
angrily.
"She come to help me to something for my little one who's a bit weak
this last month, master."
"If you want to see Mother Goodhugh, you go to her," cried the founder.
"But for a chance, half of us might be lying stiff and cold--nay,
parson, stiff and hot, roasted and scalded, and cooked by the iron and
steam. There, get to work and clear up, and we must have all put to
rights again. Tom Croftly, you've put a hundred good pounds out of my
pouch through not seeing to that mould."
The great foundryman rose up now, nodding and shaking his head, while
his master turned to his guest.
"I never thought any more about you, Sir Mark," he said. "Not hurt, I
hope," he continued, taking the flagon from Mace, and drawing up the lid
with a clink; "Here, take a draught of this."
"More frightened than hurt," said Sir Mark, taking the flagon, bowing to
Mace, and raising it to his lips.
"It was startling," said the founder, grimly. "I say, squire, you can
put that in the report to His Majesty. Ha, ha, ha!" he continued, after
a pull at the ale. "If he had been here he'd have thought all the
witches in Christendom had come about his ears, and here's Mother
Goodhugh again."
There was a buzz in the little crowd, as the old woman came near to
climb upon a heap of furnace-cinder, and stand pointing to the disroofed
shed, mouthing and grinning maliciously.
"Cursed," she cried; "cursed, all cursed. Bide and rest, all of you,
and see how all I say will be fulfilled. Ha, ha, ha! How the wicked
fall!"
"Nay, they don't," cried the founder, "or thou'd'st come down off that
furnace-glass. Get thee home for a foul venom-spitting toad," he added,
angrily. "Come, Mace; come, Sir Mark, I can't contain myself to-day if
she begins to play Shimei and throw her stones."
As he spoke, he took his daughter's hand, and walked away, leaving
Mother Goodhugh gesticulating, talking to the workpeople, and
prophesying evil against the house of Cobbe.
Master Peasegood stood listening to her for a few moments, and then
turned to the knight.
"As well try to stop a running stream, sir," he said, quietly. "If I
dam it in one place it will break out elsewhere. She must run until
she's dry:" and he followed the founder into the house.
Volume 1, Chapter XI.