Not a word was spoken, and the roughly-clad, brown-faced men went steadily on. Their load was changed from time to time, and after a while a stoppage was made by a stream, where Mother Goodhugh's face was bathed, and the leader, whom it would have puzzled his best friends to have taken for Gilbert Carr, knelt beside her, and poured a few drops of spirits between her lips.

"Think she's burned, captain?" said a rough voice that could be none other than that of Wat Kilby.

"No," was the reply, "but I fear we were too late. She will hardly live to our journey's end. Forward, my lads, forward! Did anyone see aught of Master Cobbe?"

"I saw him turn away and go behind the cart," said one of the men. "He was not in the fight."

"And Master Peasegood?"

"I helped him up, captain, and he staggered to the bank, and sat down on a half-burned faggot."

"Then they are all right," said the captain, musingly. "Wat, we shall have to be off to sea again at once. This affair will make the country too hot to hold us."

"Why did you do it then?" growled the old man, gruffly, as he limped along, his scarred face shining in the sun. "She was no good, and will only curse us for our pains."

"Well, Wat," said the captain, sadly, "and if she does, we can bear another curse or too."

"Ay, or a hundred," was the reply.

It was a hot walk, through the still woods and over streams and ravine-scored hills. The men, as they grew heated, stripped off their rough country Saxon gaberdines, and appeared as light, active seamen of the time, one and all taking turns in carrying Mother Goodhugh, for whom a rough kind of hurdle had been hastily twisted together, and upon it she was laid.

At last the little party was ascending one rugged side of the valley where Anne Beckley had been left to wait the coming of her lover; and after a weary climb the men all had a rest, seating themselves by the spring that gushed from the rocks where the ferns and mosses hung, and after tempering the clear fluid with spirit they began to smoke.

"Let her rest for a time," said Gil; "there is no danger here. Poor soul! A narrow escape from death." As he spoke he covered the wretched creature with a cloak, and placed a doubled gaberdine beneath hothead.

He again trickled a few drops of spirits between the cracked white lips; and, after watching its effects, he rose from his knees, leaving Wat Kilby to fill his little pipe.

"Not much of a job after a twelvemonths' cruise," muttered Wat, as he limped uneasily up and down, "but better than leaving the poor old lass to burn. She's too old and ugly, or she might have done; for I want a wife. Bah! No. She wouldn't do. She's not the witch I want. Eh!

captain, did you call?"

"Yes," was the reply; and, on rising, the old lieutenant scrambled up to where Gil, who looked bronzed and ten years older, stood pointing to the stones at the mouth of the store.

"Not been touched, eh, skipper?" said the old fellow.

"No; not by anything more than a rabbit," said Gil, in a grave, quiet voice. "Get up the bars when the lads are rested. We shall have to stay here for the night."

Volume 3, Chapter XIV.

HOW WAT KILBY FIRED A TRAIN AND MOTHER GOODHUGH SPOKE.

Gil sat down beside the old woman and remained thinking of what had taken place during the past year. He had sailed away, reckless and heart-broken, caring little where he went, and, after discharging cargo in one of the Spanish ports, he had taken in provisions, and, his men rather welcoming the change, he had made sail for the far East, touching at Ceylon; then on to the Eastern Islands, the lands of spices and strange growths. It was an aimless voyage, but they took in small articles of cargo--silk here, rice there, and dye-woods; and then sailing further went north and east to China and Japan, before the vessel's stem was turned once more for home.

For a strange sense of longing had come over Gil Carr. Months back he had felt that he could never see Roehurst more. Then came the change, with its longing void in his heart. Night and day it was ever the same.

There was the old place before his eyes, and a something tugging at his heartstrings to draw him back. The face of Sweet Mace seemed gazing appealingly in his as it asked him to come and save her.

"Save her--from what?" he cried passionately, as he paced up and down the little deck, looking wild-eyed and strange, while his men whispered the one to the other, and he set his teeth firmly and his eyes flashed with anger, for he knew they thought him mad.

It was the work of a minute almost. They were sailing into a fresh port in Japan, where they could see the strangely-dressed people staring at the new comers from the decks of their junks, when Gil suddenly gave orders--he recalled it all--orders to 'bout ship, and they were obeyed without a word.

It was not until they had been sailing on for days that Wat Kilby had come to him with the gruff question, "Where to now, skipper?"

"_Home_!" was the single word spoken in reply; and then, as he stood gazing straight before him at the wide expanse of ocean, there arose from the crew a tremendous cheer.

He recalled it all--how he had stood gazing there while order after order was given by Wat Kilby; how sail after sail had been set and the little vessel careened to the breeze; while ever before him, with a smile upon her face, the figure of Mace seemed to stand waving him on.

And so it had been during the homeward voyage. Every sail the vessel would bear had been kept set, and she seemed to skim over the sea in fair weather, and to battle bravely in foul, to get back to the little river and her ancient moorings beneath the trees.

He recalled telling himself that he was mad, for this was but another phase of his humour. But a short time back he was restless to get farther and farther away; now he had conjured up this phantasy to call him back--back to what?

A bitter sob would struggle from his heart as he told himself it was to gaze again upon poor Mace's grave.

Always there, sleeping or waking, never shut from his mental vision, that sweet, pale face smiling at him as the ship sped on; and only when forced by want of provisions did they enter port, till once more upon the tide the weather-beaten ship rode safely into the mouth of the little river. Then the big boat was lowered and manned, a tow-rope run out, and the men pulled cheerily to keep the little vessel's head straight as she glided on up the fast narrowing stream, till the spars nearly touched the branches on either side, and her old moorings were made.

Wat Kilby played the part of spy, and went ashore, for now that they were back the fancy that had floated before Gil's eyes had been seen no more; and moody and despondent he had shrunk from leaving his ship.

It was Wat Kilby then who made his way over the hills and through the forest to the village, and had borne back the news which stirred Gil to action; and for Mace's sake, as he said, he had determined to save poor old Mother Goodhugh from so horrible a fate.

"She would have urged me to do it," he said to himself; and, making his plans, he had been successful; while there, half dead, the poor creature lay, with the adventurer sitting meditating by her side.

"What shall I do now?" said Gil to himself in a bitter tone. "Set sail again, I suppose, for this Sir Mark, unless too busy with his wedding, will try to hunt us down.

"Well, let him come if he will," he added, wearily, and then rising.

"Now, my lads!" he cried, "to work."

His men jumped up; and as he stood by, watching and thinking how in one year the ferns and wild plants set in the crevices had concealed the mouth of the store, iron bars and shovels were plied, the stones loosened and thrown aside, till at last only one large piece remained, and that had so tightly wedged itself in that it resisted all their efforts to dislodge it.

"Come boys," Wat Kilby cried, "have you left all your strength in the Indies? Lay to at it with a will. Now, all together--heave ho!"

As he spoke he brought his whole strength to bear upon it, but dropped the bar directly after, and stood shaking his head; for he had never recovered from the terrible burns and injuries he had received at the explosion--injuries that had left him for months a helpless invalid during the early part of the voyage, and a cripple for life.

"Skipper," he said, "I'm not quite so strong as I was, and my bones don't seem to be knit together as they were. It'll take some pounds o'

Mas' Cobbe's best to lift that out."

Gil frowned, for the old man's speech brought up a host of painful recollections.

"Shall we get up some powder, skipper?" said Wat.

"And fire the barrels that are in the store?" said Gil sternly.

"Nay," growled the old fellow; "we could hoist out that stone without reaching any that is in yonder: it is too far away."

"Get it then," said Gil indifferently; and a couple of men were despatched to the ship, returning after some two or three hours with the keg, which they carried in turn.

Mother Goodhugh had not moved, but lay in a kind of stupor with half-closed eyes, Gil sitting near and dreaming over the past.

A slight rustle near him made him gaze upwards once to see a rabbit scurry away from a hole beneath the great stone, and this he marked as suitable for laying the charge to lift away the mass.

At last, the men came toiling up the steep ascent, and Wat Kilby busied himself in preparing a mine that should do what was required without further damage to the store.