It was soon done--a train laid, and a fuse prepared. Then Mother Goodhugh was carefully lifted and laid behind a corner of the rock, where harm could not befall her, and Wat Kilby stood ready to fire the fuse after seeing all the men were safe.

"Now, captain," he said, "as soon as you like."

"Stop a moment," said Gil, thoughtfully, though all the time he was experiencing a fierce longing to enter the cave once more.

"What for, captain?" said Wat gruffly, as he puffed at his pipe.

"The sound may be heard, and bring Sir Mark's fellows down."

"Nay," cried Wat, "the noise will run down the valley and out to sea, my lad. They'll not hear it inland, I lay my life. Bah! and if they did, what then? No one could find his way here without a guide."

"Go on, then," said Gil quietly; and, drawing back to the shelter of a little recess, he stood watching the acts of Wat Kilby, a famous old gunner in his way, as, after puffing at his pipe to make it glow, he just touched the end of the fuse, laid the other end by the train, and limped coolly to the captain's side.

From the rocky recess they could see the fuse sparkle and burn rapidly away, and listen to the buzz of the voices of the crew as they talked of the explosion; then a zigzag line of fire seemed to run along amongst the heather and ferns; there was a blinding flash, a thick white smoke, and, lastly, a heavy dull roar that rolled down the ravine, and the fall of masses of the splintered rock.

The smoke rose slowly over the face of the cliff, showing the grey and blackened traces where the fire had blasted bush and tree; while, where the large block of sandstone had lain was now a dark opening, the rock having been lifted right away, reft in twain, and thrown some yards down the slope.

"There, skipper," growled Wat, as he limped along, and the men came up; "there be not a cask split inside I'll wager, and a few showers of rain will hide all the marks."

Gil nodded.

"Four of you bring the old woman along," he said. "We'll make her a bed inside. Good God!"

He was startled at what he saw, for the explosion seemed to have roused Mother Goodhugh, who came crawling painfully towards them to raise herself upon her knees and point, and struggle to speak.

"Yes, yes," she cried. "Powder, powder--the cursed stuff. Cobbe's work; Cobbe's work. He slew my dear with it, and now--ha, ha, ha! I have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here."

Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it, as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly grotesque.

"Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped--that wedding--Mistress Anne--the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did--I stopped it.

Do you hear? I got the key--the powder-cellar, and laid a train--a long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the garden--there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder," she panted, pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled.

"I did it--I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me--all of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark's men--and then I struck with my flint and steel--and the fire--ran along the ground--and the powder blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and--and--why is it daylight?

Why does the sun shine?" she continued, gazing wildly from one to the other.

"She's daft," growled Wat. "Poor soul! they have frightened away her wits."

"Silence," cried Gil. "Let her speak."

"Who says I'm daft?" cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. "I am not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas' Jeremiah Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store."

"She thinks it is a year ago," muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror.

"Yes, yes. I've had my revenge," muttered the old woman, gazing round wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, "and burnt his place.

He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor child! poor child! poor child!"

"Mother Goodhugh," cried Gil hoarsely, "did you fire the Pool-house?"

"Yes, yes, yes; the powder," gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. "I did it well; and now I'll forgive him. I'll curse Mas' Cobbe no more. I did it just now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands--my hair, but never mind; I've had revenge."

"Then it was you who fired the powder there--that dreadful night," cried Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.

"Yes, I did it," chuckled the old woman; then, throwing up her hands as if in pain--"but Sweet Mace--poor Sweet Mace--they thought it killed her, too. I hated her; and yet, no; she was very good and sweet. I saw him bring her out--yes, it was you--and laid her--dead upon the ground.

Yes, I saw; and she turned to a white spirit--yes, white spirit--and she comes to see me--no: does she?--I can't think--it was just now I got her out, and she has come to me ever since, so white and sad, and she looks at me always with her great soft eyes. Poor child! poor girl! I've wept about her sore, for she was as good and gentle as Mistress Anne was bad."

The spirit was in Gil Carr to strangle the old woman as she made her hideous confession, but her words of pity for sweet Mace disarmed him, and he let her sink to the earth, where she crouched, gazing feebly from one to the other, and fighting hard to sustain her tottering head.

"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned piteously; "she comes looking so white and sad to ask me why I killed her, and it makes my heart so sore. But I shall bring her to her senses again some day, perhaps--some day. Hush, hush! not a word. If you speak she goes again. There--there--look, look!" cried the old woman in a hoarse whisper, as, throwing one arm round Gil's leg, she leaned her head against it, steadied herself, and pointed with her skinny fingers. "Yes, there she be. Poor child! poor child! Mace, child, I did not mean to harm thee. Wilt forgive me, dear? See! see!"

As she pointed they glanced in the direction indicated by the old woman's finger, and Gil uttered a cry, for in the dark, powder-riven entry to the store, and not a dozen yards away, stood a weird figure with long, flowing hair. The arms and shoulders were bare, and the white hands covered the face, giving it as it stood in the obscurity of the cave a spiritual look that made even the least superstitious of the party--Gil himself--shudder, feeling that he was in the presence of a being of another world.

Volume 3, Chapter XV.

HOW CULVERIN CARR SOLVED A PROBLEM.

Sweet Mace stood motionless in the opening, a soft blue reek floating gently out from the store, as the damp air of the place was driven forth by a downward current through a fissure far in its depths; and this, as it surrounded the rescued prisoner, added to the unreality of the scene.

For the figure was seen through a medium that rendered it unsubstantial in aspect, added to which the deadly whiteness of the brow and hands made it look unnatural to a degree.

For some time no one spoke. The men grouped together, stared at the strange apparition in the cavern mouth, and Wat Kilby gazed from it to his leader and back, while the soft wind wafted the blue haze from the opening away from the motionless figure, and then enveloped it again, as if it were part and parcel of the subterranean abode, and it sought to draw its occupant back to its shades.

Mother Goodhugh was the first to break the silence, as, crawling towards the place on hands and knees, she crouched at last at Mace's feet, and lay there, panting.

"She has come from the dead to fetch me," moaned the old woman, whose reason seemed to wander. "I know her. See how white, and cold, and strange she is. My child, my child, I killed thee, I killed thee; and now--now--have pity on me! have pity! I be not a witch."

She grovelled lower and lower, clasping Mace's bare, white feet, and laid her cheek against them, while, still keeping one hand across her eyes, the poor girl bent down slowly, and touched the crouching wretch.

Gil had remained motionless till now; but as he saw the figure move, his faith in its being supernatural was shaken, and with a loud cry he ran forward with outstretched hands.

"Mace," he cried, hoarsely, "speak to me, oh, speak!"

He had not touched her, for in his surprise it seemed possible, after Mother Goodhugh's words, that the woman he loved had come back from the dead, but still his common sense revolted, while his eyes asserted that it was true.

As he spoke Mace rose upright again, but without removing her hand from her eyes, and Gil saw that her long hair was grey as that of some venerable dame; that the slight garment she wore was ragged, and that her fingers were torn and bleeding fast.

He could not tell what it meant; how she came to be there; but the idea of the supernatural was cleared away, and, making an effort over his slavish dread, he caught the disengaged hand in his.

It was like ice, but his touch broke the spell, for, with a piteous cry, Mace tottered and would have fallen had not Gil caught her in his arms.

She was deathly cold, and as he bore her to a spot where the soft turf was dotted with purple heather he saw that her eyelids were tightly closed, and her brow knit as if with pain; and, judging that the glow of sunshine caused her to suffer, he laid a kerchief across her eyes before clasping her icy hands and trickling a few drops of water between her lips.

A host of confusing thoughts rushed through his brain, the only substantial one he could grasp being that Mace must have gone to the cavern to seek him, and then have been shut in.

But this idea was driven away on the instant by an older recollection, one which made him groan in the anguish of his heart.

"My love is dead," he panted. "Did not those hands lay her in her grave? God in heaven have mercy on me! Am I going mad?"

"Skipper," whispered a voice at his side, and looking up he saw old Wat standing with dilated eyes, pointing down at the insensible figure.

"Skipper," the old fellow whispered hoarsely, "we bean't cowards, but the old woman be a witch after all. Come away, come away!"