"Never," said Gil in a low stern voice.

It was quite dark now, and the gloom of the ravine seemed heavier than ever as Abel Churr, who felt that his end was near, wrenched himself slightly round to gaze shudderingly into the depths below; and then as he fancied that he saw the flash of a knife in Gil's disengaged hand, while the other held him tightly by the belt, he uttered a loud shriek, that was repeated from the rock in front, to die off in whispers as if the man condemned to death were already on his way to the unknown shore, and his voice could be heard farther and farther as he onward sped.

Volume 1, Chapter XVI.

HOW TOM CROFTLY HAD A HOLIDAY.

The founder yielded one day to Tom Croftly's importunities and gave him a holiday, which also meant taking one for himself, and to thoroughly enjoy it they both got up early.

Tom Croftly was first, reaching the Pool-house before it was light, and just as the blackbirds had begun to hunt in the damp corners for slugs and snails.

It was quite an hour later before the founder joined him, to find Tom working away with the heavy old wheelbarrow and the manure-fork.

"Hallo, Tom, you here?" said the founder, looking eastward, where the golden orange flecks told of the coming sun.

"Here? Ay, been here this hour; most emptied the mixen, and got a brave girt bed made; but who's to work wi' such a tool as this?" and he held up the fork.

"You, if you've any sense in your head," growled the founder, who was sleepy yet.

"I've got some sense in my head," said Tom Croftly; "but no man can't work with a noo-fangled tool like that. I never see such a thing. It breaks a man's back. A fork ought to have three tines in it."

"And I say it ought to have four," said the founder, tartly. "Why, as soon as you started to fork dry stuff with the other it all began to tumble through. That new four-tined fork holds it."

"Ay, and 'most breaks a man's back," grumbled Tom Croftly. "Falls through? Why, of course it does. That's nat'ral, and as it should.

It's the small as falls through, and you takes up all the crumbs after wi' a shovel. 'Taint like having a holiday to work wi' a tool like that."

"There, get on," said the founder, "and don't grumble. Lend me the fork."

He seized the implement, and loaded up the barrow easily and well, turning afterwards to his man, "There, you can't do better than that."

"And where's your crumbs to finish off with at the top?" grumbled Tom Croftly. "We shan't get much of a cucumber-bed, you'll see."

"Look here, Tom Croftly, if you're going to grumble like this, we'll go back to the foundry-work."

"Nay, nay, master."

"Thou askedst for a holiday, and I said 'yes,' and here it is."

"And my garden wanted it badly, master."

"Yes; but I'm not going to holiday keep with a grumbler."

"I'll never say another word, master, only that tool felt as if Mother Goodhugh had put a spell upon it. Hoop! wup!"

The two latter ejaculations were uttered by the founder's man, as he lifted the barrow-handles, and then pushed the barrow along over the dewy grass-paths to where the cucumber-bed was to be made.

"Mother Goodhugh never put a spell on anything in her life," said the founder, stoutly, as he began to unload the barrow in a little square marked out by four strong pegs.

"I dunno about that, master," said Tom, rubbing his great bullet-head.

"Why, Tom, Tom, thou'rt never such a fool as to believe in ghosts, and sprites, and witches?" said the founder, arranging the stable manure carefully with the fork.

"Nay, nay, master. Oh, no. I don't _believe_ in 'em, but it was curus that the mould should blow up in that terrifying way after Mother Goodhugh had been."

"Curious if it hadn't," cried the founder, patting down his work. "If Tom Croftly had given a look to the mould first, or if I had--as I ought to have done--there would have been no explosion."

"Nay, master, I think she ill-lucked the mould."

"And I think she poured a pail of water in, my lad. Why, Tom, you're six feet one high."

"Six foot two and a half, master," said Tom, in a self-satisfied manner.

"And as strong as a horse."

"Ay, master, I am. I lifted our pony off his legs the other day."

"And yet you're afraid of that poor half-daft old woman."

"Nay, nay, master; not _afeard_," said Tom, stoutly. "I never felt afeard o' Mother Goodhugh yet; but you see, if she do happen like to be a witch, it be just as well to be civil to her like, and not do anything to make her curse one."

"Curses don't do any harm, Tom, my lad," said the founder.

"I hope they don't, master, for Mother Goodhugh do curse you a deal."

"Let her," said the founder.

"Shall I fetch they crumbs in a trug, master?" said Tom, watching intently the formation of the cucumber-bed.

"We will have the bed a deal higher yet, Tom, and put the crumbs on the top, and a couple o' hills of nice warm earth a'top o' that. We must have some finer cucumbers this year than Dame Beckley grows up at the Moat."

The manufacture of the cucumber-bed went on, and Tom Croftly had the satisfaction of fetching the "crumbs" in a trug or truck-basket; after which, the founder and he had a long turn at the patch of hops, which had been growing rather wild and away from their poles. The wild ones were carefully twisted round the supports, and tied at intervals with rushes to keep them in place, after which, it being seven o'clock, the founder proposed breakfast, and led the way to the house.

Sir Mark had accepted an invitation the previous day, after much protesting that he was still too weak and could hardly get about, and had gone to dine with Sir Thomas at the Moat, and stay the next day over, so that Mace felt herself free and forgetful of her troubles. She set aside the haunting thoughts of the fate of the weapons her father made, and devoted herself to domestic duties that had of late fallen to Janet's lot.

"Morning, mistress!" cried Tom, coming smiling in at the kitchen door, through which he could see Mace with her sleeves rolled above her white elbows busily trying the new cakes that had been baked for breakfast.

"Good morning, Tom," cried Mace. "Quick, Janet, get out the cold bacon and draw a mug of ale."

Tom smiled broadly, as he took his place at the white, well-scrubbed table, for it was an understood thing that whenever Tom Croftly had a whole holiday, that is to say, had a cessation from foundry-work to go in the garden, he had his meals at the house.

The founder's breakfast was ready, but he was called away, so Mace remained busy about the kitchen, going in and out of the dairy where the golden butter lay in rolls, and the yellow cream was so thick in the broad pans that it went into wrinkles and crinkles, like an old woman's face when it was skimmed.

The glorious sunshine came in at the open door, with the scent of the flowers, and the bees buzzed about the blossoms as they journeyed to and from their round-topped hives, while Tom Croftly took a long draught of ale, sighed, and then began work upon the new loaf and bacon.

"This be a fine cut o' bacon, mistress," said he, as Mace came near.

"I am glad you like it, Tom."

"Ay, I like the bacon, mistress, but this here knife's a wonder."