"Cursed! I tell thee--cursed!" cried Mother Goodhugh. "It has been a long time coming, but it has come at length. Look how it smokes and burns. Didst hear the noise the devilish powder made? Ha! ha! ha!

That which he made to destroy others has destroyed himself. Burn, flames, burn!" she cried, waving her stick; "burn wood and stones, and burn until all is level with the dust!"

The crowd stood round her at a respectful distance listening to her ravings, and had she been the wise woman she professed to be, she would have known where to stop and beat a hasty retreat, with a great increase, among the simple people, to her reputation. But it was not to be.

Just then, borne in a lumbering carriage that this time had brayed all the ruts, up came Sir Thomas Beckley, with Mistress Anne and Master Peasegood.

The old woman caught sight of Anne Beckley as she descended hastily from the carriage, and approached her with a malicious, triumphant look.

Just then the jealous girl caught sight of the prostrate body in its wedding-dress, and seemed petrified.

"What did I say--what did I say?" cried a voice behind her, and turning she encountered Mother Goodhugh's malignant eyes.

This was too much for Anne, who crept shuddering away, when the burning house, the kneeling figure by the dead, the whole scene seemed to swim round her, and she would have fallen but for Sir Mark, who caught her in his arms.

"Oh, it is too dreadful--too dreadful!" she murmured, and closed her eyes.

"Master Peasegood, will you take him to your house?" said Gil. "Poor soul! the shock has been too heavy for his brain."

"Eh! Go with Master Peasegood? Yes," said the founder smiling. "Gil, brave lad, you'll see that my darling does not come to harm."

Gil bowed his head, and as the founder rose from his knees smiling and ready to accompany the parson, down whose cheeks the great tears coursed, Mother Goodhugh climbed on a heap of stones, waving her hands wildly as she saw her enemy pass.

"Woe to him; woe to his house!" she shrieked excitedly.

"Silence that vile witch's mouth," cried Sir Thomas.

"A witch, a witch!" cried a voice; and Wat Kilby, who had dragged himself up once more upon his hands and knees, waved one hand again towards the burning ruins, which had just burst forth into fiercer flames.

"A witch--a witch!" he yelled, "away with her, and let her burn."

A shout rose from Sir Mark's followers, and, with a rush, they surrounded the old woman, who struck at them with her stick as she was seized. Then, in spite of her shrieks and appeals, she was borne towards the burning ruins.

The burning of a witch was so congenial an occupation, that, failing a great triumph over Gil Carr's crew, the followers of Sir Mark took to their task with such gusto that in another minute Mother Goodhugh would have been hurled into the flames.

It was in Anne Beckley's power to save her by a quick appeal to Sir Mark; but she hesitated, for the thought flashed across her mind that, Mother Goodhugh dead, she would carry with her many secrets, and, above all, the greatest one, of how this terrible affair had been brought about. It might have been accident; but she had her doubts.

Sir Thomas looked on in puzzled guise. He knew he ought to do or say something, but without his clerk he was generally at sea, while Master Peasegood, who might have given him good advice, had gone off, leading the stricken father to his home.

It was Gil who interfered, and none too soon.

Springing up from where he had knelt on one knee, he threw himself before the would-be executioners.

"Shame on you!" he cried; and the men stopped, short, while Mother Goodhugh struggled from them to throw herself on the earth and cling to Gil's knees.

"Save, oh, save me!" she shrieked; "I cannot die."

"What are you, that you interfere?" cried one of the men.

"A witch--a witch--to the flames," cried Wat Kilby, in his harsh voice.

"Silence, old dog!" roared Gil.

"In with her, lads!" cried the first of the men, seizing Mother Goodhugh by the shoulder; but, as she shrieked with horror, the man went down from a blow given by Gil's clenched hand, which the next moment sought his sword, to find it gone.

With a shout, the others closed round Gil, but this roused his own followers, who ran up and dragged Mother Goodhugh away. They faced Sir Mark's men, and, weapons being drawn, there was an imminent risk of a renewal of the fight, when Sir Thomas's fat voice was heard, sounding weak and tremulous, for the baronet was terribly alarmed.

"Stop! my good men," he cried; "you must not burn her until she has been tried. A woman suspected of witchcraft must--er--er--must--er--er--be taken before--er--er--the nearest justice of the peace--er--er--er--that is me, you see, and--"

"Escape without a word," whispered Gil to the old woman. "I'll cover your flight."

"Bless thee for--"

"Keep thy blessings and thy curses," said Gil, sternly. "Go."

Mother Goodhugh shrank trembling away, the village people and the workers opening to let her pass, while, when Sir Mark's men advanced to try and retake her, they were met by the swords of Gil's crew.

"Don't; pray don't let them fight," whispered Anne in agony.

"Is this a seemly time for a fresh encounter, Sir Mark?" said Gil.

"Not if you give yourself up," was the reply. "I give up--to you?" said Gil. "Let who interferes with me and my men do so at his peril. This way, my lads," he cried. "There is a cloak behind yon shed. It was meant for thee, sweet," he whispered, as he bent down over the dead, "to keep thee from the cold;" and upon its being brought, the lifeless figure, in its wedding-dress, was reverently lifted and borne into Tom Croftly's house.

Sir Mark concluded to engage in no further encounter that night, telling himself that he could easily take Gil another time. So, calling off his men, he allowed him to superintend the removing of the lifeless girl, Anne Beckley now following trembling into the cottage, awe-stricken as she was at being in the presence of death, while, when at last day broke and the bright sun rose, it was upon a heap of ashes smouldering and smoking still. Where the pleasant old garden had been alive with verdure, teeming fruit-trees, and autumn flowers, was a space of trampled blackened soil, while for fifty yards round the trees had been scorched and stripped not only of their leaves, but of every minor twig and spray.

Sir Mark scowled angrily again and again at Gil, and his men gave the sailors many a menacing look, as they took upon themselves the duty of keeping watch by the house where the poor girl lay.

It was Gil's men, too, who tried to search the ashes of the Gabled House for the remains of poor Janet, the only other occupant of the building; but the task was given up, on its being found that the intense heat had fused metal, and reduced the stones so that they crumbled at the touch.

Volume 3, Chapter VII.

HOW MASTER PEASEGOOD PREACHED WISDOM.

Gil's ship, with Father Brisdone on board, after waiting in vain for its freight, grounded as the tide went down. The old priest, who had been on deck, leaning over the bulwarks gazing up the river for the boat that did not come, had been startled by a great flash of light which suddenly shot up above the hills, and then by a heavy clap as of thunder, followed shortly by a fierce glow in the sky, all of which told him only too plainly of some terrible catastrophe at the powder-works.

He was not surprised, then, that the boat did not arrive till the long, weary night had passed away, and the bright sun shone once more upon the dancing waters, but even then noon was fast approaching before there was the measured dip of oars, and the boat came round a wooded point.

He looked earnestly for Mace, but, not seeing her, he sighed.

"My eyes fail me a good deal now," he said; and, shading them with his hand, he stood watching till, as the boat neared the ship, he could see that she had four men lying in the stern sheets, and he concluded that there had been an encounter.

"A bad augur," he said, sadly; "bloodshed on the eve of a wedding. Poor boy though, there seems no chance of a wedding, for he has not won his love."

His hands trembled as he stood at the gangway, while the boat was run up to the side and Gil painfully climbed on board.

"Failed, my son?" cried Father Brisdone and here he stopped short as he saw the terrible look of anguish in the young man's eyes.

"Help my poor lads, father," he said sadly. "They have been lying hurt these many hours."

One by one four injured men were hoisted on board, and laid beneath the shelter of a sail, while Gil and the father attended to their injuries with rough but sensible surgery. There was a severe sword-wound and plenty of terrible burns, but the worst sufferer was poor Wat Kilby, whose face was blackened by the explosion, hair and beard burned off, and his thigh-bone broken.