The hours glided slowly by, and the soft damp of night scented the
forest with its peculiar odours,--of decaying leaves, swift-growing
fungi, and mouldering wood. Ever and again a leaf that had hung lightly
by its dying stalk became so laden with dew that it fell pattering down
with a noise that seemed startlingly loud in the silence of the time.
Borne on the sighing breeze that whispered through the branches above
came, rising and falling, the rushing sound of falling water, as the
swift stream dashed past the front of the founder's house, and hurried
towards the huge wheel, but only to be turned aside to sweep with a
sudden plunge into the lower hole.
There was something very strange and hollow that night in the sound of
the rushing stream; and, as Gil stood leaning against a tree, the
falling water seemed now distant, dying away in sighs; now close at
hand, rolling down with a thunderous bass. If he had been asked why it
affected him, he could not have said; but its deep notes sounded then
like a portent of mishap. He remembered it afterwards so well, for
every incident of that memorable evening seemed to be burned into his
brain, and he had but to lean over the side of his ship and gaze away
into the depths of air and sea to have all come vividly back as if the
events were then taking place.
Hour after hour glided by and there was no interruption, nothing to
disturb the solitude. From time to time Gil walked back to the oak, but
only to find his men well on the alert, and that the sentries had
nothing to report. There was scarcely any talking, no drinking, and no
smoking, for his people were in earnest to do everything possible to
carry out their leader's plans. Even Wat Kilby contented himself with
sucking quietly at his empty pipe and glancing round at every man in
turn to see that the rules were kept.
Hardly a word had passed between Wat and his leader, for the old man was
in dudgeon. He had had his shrewd suspicions that Gil intended to carry
off Mace that night, and he had come to the conclusion that his duty was
to take Janet at the same time. To his anger and disgust, though, he
found that this was strictly forbidden, and earlier in the day a sharp
verbal contest had ensued.
"Why can't I take her abroad?" he growled. "You're going to have a
priest, and I want a wife same as other men."
"Once for all, Wat," said Gil, sternly; "I will have no paltering with
the work I have on hand. Will you obey me and work to the end for my
scheme?"
"Why, of course I will," grumbled the old fellow, "but I don't see why
as--"
"Not another word!" cried Gil. "But what I says is this, skipper:
Thou'st got a priest--"
"Silence, sir; how dare you!" roared Gil; and the old man shrank away to
pull out his little pipe, and begin sucking at it viciously, jerking his
long body about, and acting generally as if he had a volcanic eruption
going on within him, the safety-valve to which was an explosion of
muttered words now and then, which escaped after a kind of quake that
shook him like a spasm from top to toe.
All the same, though, Wat made no further resistance to his leader's
will, but with the energy of a long tried, well-disciplined follower, he
worked away at the various preparations, and was as obedient as a dog.
As Gil stood thinking in the wood, he once more went over his plans,
wondering whether there would be an encounter with Sir Mark's followers,
and then smiling grimly to himself, as he half wished there might be,
and thought of how he would like once more to stand face to face with
the man who was so nearly robbing him of her whom he had always looked
upon as his very own.
At last the time seemed to him to be a fitting one for the venture, and,
giving the signal, his men started up from amongst the dewy herbage;
there was the clink of arms and a rustling noise as all fell into their
places; and, taking the head of his little force, Gil gave his final
orders, especially commanding silence, and made for the Pool-house.
Gil's plans were well matured, and his followers fell into their
respective places without confusion. Arriving pretty close to the
foundry, he posted them behind the smallest of the furnace-sheds, where
the black shadow of night was blacker than in the open; and then, with
Wat at his elbow, he made for another shed, where he knew that a short
stout ladder was kept.
This was in its place, and Wat was about to shoulder it, when in a low
hoarse whisper the old fellow said:--
"You'll let me take her, too, skipper?"
For answer Gil turned angrily.
"Put that ladder down," he whispered; "and go back. Send Morris."
"No, no, skipper," whispered the old fellow hastily. "Let me go."
"Put down the ladder. Go back, and send me a trustworthy man."
"I'm the trust worthiest man you've got, skipper," growled Wat, "only I
was obliged to say a word for I feel as I ought to marry the girl now.
You don't know what it is to be in love, skipper, or you would not treat
me thus."
"Do you go, or stay?" said Gil.
"Stay," said Wat. "I shan't leave you, skipper, come what may. I've
done. Not another word about it will you hear from me."
Wat shouldered the ladder, and together the two men walked towards the
water-run, and along it by the stones to the little bridge, which they
softly crossed, and entered the garden.
They paused to listen, but all was very still and dark. A more suitable
night could not have been chosen for the adventure, and together they
made for Mace's window, where a dim light was burning.
The end of the ladder rustled slightly as it was borne amongst the
trees, and they again stopped to listen; but all was still, and so
intense was the darkness now before moonrise--the moon that was to light
the boat down the river to where the ship lay waiting--that they could
see neither to the right nor the left, even the thick bushes under the
window were in the gloom.
Would she fail him at this important time? Gil's heart asked; but he
crushed down the thought. No: she would come, he was sure of it, for
she had promised him, and he felt no fear of her wanting in spirit for
the enterprise.
"No," he muttered; "she would go through fire and water to escape his
touch alone, and she would dare more to be beside me."
There was a thrill of joy at these thoughts, and he gazed anxiously at
the window, waiting to see it opened, that he might raise the ladder and
help her away.
It must be the hour, he thought, but the next minute he set it down to
impatience.
"She will be to her time," he said.
As if warned by an instinct of coming danger, Gil Carr drew his sword,
and, resting the point upon the toe of his boot, stood leaning his hands
upon the hilt, while Wat placed the foot of the ladder on a flowerbed,
and held the two sides, with his rusty-beard upon one of the spokes,
thinking of how he wished they were going to carry off Janet, and
whether she would have been willing to come.
"She did call me an old fool last time, and slapped my face," he
muttered; "but that was only by way of showing how fond she was. Ha! it
be terrifying work having to deal with such an arbitrary skipper as
ourn."
Gil still gazed at the window, thinking that if he had changed places
with Sir Mark, and a dangerous foe had been in the field, a cordon of
sentries would have been placed round the house for his love's
protection; whilst Sir Mark was evidently sleeping luxuriously, and
dreaming, perhaps, of possessing his fair young bride. "Poor, befooled
idiot!" said Gil to himself; "I do not envy him his morrow's waking.
Why, if I--. Pst! Wat, your sword."
His left hand involuntarily flew to the silver whistle that hung at his
neck, while his sword was raised readily, and turned aside a pass that
grazed his ribs. For in an instant the bushes around them seemed alive
with armed men, who rose in obedience to a call, and made for Gil and
his old follower.
Wat was as much upon the alert as his leader, but he had not time to
draw his sword. Not that it mattered, for the short ladder became a
very effective weapon in the emergency. Raising it with both hands
above his head, he poised it there for a moment, keeping it well ready,
and then, darting it rapidly forward again and again, he drove it into
the chests of three or four assailants, sending them crashing down
amongst the bushes, as he kept them sufficiently distant to prevent them
from reaching him with the points of their swords.
As the first blade gritted against that of Gil's, he placed the whistle
to his lips, and its note rang out shrilly on the midnight air, to be
answered by the rush of feet over the little wooden bridge as his men
came running up; and now there was nothing left but for the defenders of
the house to be beaten back, the place itself to be forced, and Mace
carried away.
"Swing the bridge!" cried a voice, which Gil recognised as that of Sir
Mark. "They're trapped now. Hollo, there! Lights, quick! Surrender,
you dogs, in the King's name."
There was a creaking noise as the little bridge was swung round, and Gil
felt that, far from being in sleepy indolence and safety, Sir Mark had
not only been well on the alert, but had cleverly made his plans
according to his own lights to entrap his rival and his followers when
they came, attracted, as he felt that they would be, by the bait within
the founder's house.
"Poor fool!" muttered Gil, "if he thinks he can take us here."
For his men came running to his side to group round where he and Wat
were standing well at bay.
Volume 3, Chapter IV.