"Yes; and they dug first one and then another, as they wanted them, and grew bigger in numbers, and that it went right in farther than they'd ever been on account of the bad air."

"Same as down among the bilge in the ship's hold?"

"That's so. The skipper's father was most stifled by it once when he tried to go right in."

"But do they go right in?" The elder sailor struck the top of an empty barrel a sharp rap with the hilt of his sword, and the other's question was answered, for the sound went echoing into the distance till it died away.

"It be a queer sort of place," said the other, with a half shudder.

"Hang me if I'd like to be boxed up here along with Abel Churr, if the skipper's stowed him there."

"Plenty of room and good water," said the other, pointing down to where the source of the stream outside ran trickling through the interstices of the stone, and formed tiny pools of limpid clearness.

"Ugh! the place smells damp and cold, and I should expect to come out, if I was shut up here, all over blue mould."

"Like a bit of ship's cheese, eh? Come along: here's the skipper."

"Now, my lads!" cried Gill, just then, "work with a will, plenty to do."

He led the way, and the men followed him with a sense of relief out into the bright sunshine, where the ferns fringed the rough arch over the entrance to the hole.

They glanced at the heaps of stores and the various shipping chandlery, spare sails and cordage, but all was so familiar that nothing excited their interest.

Just as they reached the outside there was a whistle from below, and Gil uttered an impatient ejaculation. But hurrying a little distance down, he peered over a mass of rock, to see one of his men, who had been on sentry, leading a dark figure with bandaged eyes.

"Father Brisdone!" said Gil. "Bring him along, my lad."

Going forward, he quickly undid the handkerchief and threw it aside.

"I forgot to tell them, father," he said, holding out his hand; "there was no need with you."

"I do not wish to pry into any of your secrets, my son, that you do not care to trust me with," said Father Brisdone, smiling as he took the young man's hand.

"Trust you, father? Why, I'd trust you with anything. But you look weary and hot with your journey. Sit down on yon stone: this is nature's parlour. Here is something to eat. Lockyer, a bottle of that wine from the case inside on the left. The cup too."

Leading the father to a nook by the side of the entry, he placed refreshments before him, and then said--

"Now you shall see us lock up the house, for it may be a year before we return."

"Why should you show me?" said Father Brisdone, smiling.

"Why should I not show the man whom I have always looked upon as a trusty friend?" retorted Gil. "Now, my lads," he said, and, leaving the father's side, he soon had his men busy with spade and shovel. First of all the old stone was reared into its place. Then smaller blocks were thrust in here and there, so as to completely wedge it in. Then shovels of stones were thrown into fissures, and sods of earth, mingled with grass and heather, were carefully arranged; after which broad-fronded ferns, roots of rag-wort, grasses, and bramble roots were planted, dead leaves sprinkled here and there, and touch after touch given till nothing seemed left to be done but to pour water over the new earth to bind it together, and make the plants take root.

"There," said Gil to the father, as he stopped by him, hot and panting; "unless some spy has watched our work, that is safe enough, for in a week's time those things will be growing again."

"Yes, that will be secure enough," said the father, rising. "Thanks, my son, I was indeed faint for want of food. And now, what next?"

"Next, father, you will accompany my man there on board. The little ship lies ready in the river; he will take you down in the skiff. If all's well we shall be with you soon after midnight, and then heaven send us favouring gales, for we shall drop down the river on the tide, and put to sea at once."

"But no bloodshed, my son. For heaven's sake do not let the hand that leads your promised wife on board be red with the blood of a fellow-man."

"Father," said Gil, sternly, "I am no cut-throat; I am no lover of the sword. I go to-night to fetch my wife, and I go with peace and love towards all; but if that man or his followers stand in my path to prevent us, they must take what follows, for I cannot trifle now."

Father Brisdone sighed.

"You know the consequences; if I do not get her away to-night, they are to be wed at eight o' the clock, and to stay that, there must be a deadly fray. Trust me, father; and, if I can help it, no blood shall be shed."

"I trust you, my son. Go, and my blessing be with you. I shall make the little cabin a chapel, where I shall pass the time in prayer for your success."

"And then, father, a chapel where you make her mine by ties that none can break."

"Amen, my son, amen!" said Father Brisdone; and they parted, the father to follow his guide down the valley, and Gil to lead his men through one of the forest tracks in the direction of Roehurst Pool, Wat and the other watchers closing in behind.

The advance was made with caution to within a mile of the foundry, where, beneath a spreading oak, Gil called a halt, and cast his eyes over his party of twenty sturdy, well-armed men, every one of whom could handle his weapon well.

"That will do, my lads," he said in his quick, imperious way. "Now lie down, and eat and rest. Silence, every man; not a word above a whisper.

Goodsell, Kingley, two hundred paces each of you along the track. A good look--out, and a quick whistle, if so much as a berry-hunting child approach."

His orders were carried out, and then with the soft autumn evening rapidly drawing nigh, Gil also went out through the forest to watch and listen for the approach of footsteps that might end in the discovery of his men.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

HOW GIL AND HIS MEN DREW SWORD.

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.