Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times. Fenn George Manville

he has good reason for it. Jeremiah Cobbe is hot, passionate, and excited enough to carry him to perdition, but he is just. Now, look here, Mace, do you think Captain Gil is the true, good man who should be locked up in your little heart?”

      “Have – have you ill news of him?” faltered Mace, who a few hours before would have scornfully rebutted any charge against the choice of her heart.

      “I am no tale-bearer, child,” said the parson, sternly. “My mission is to make peace, not war. Tell me, have you doubted friend Gil’s truth?”

      For answer Mace sank upon her knees, and covered her face with her hands.

      “Poor child, poor child!” muttered the parson, as he laid his hand upon her glossy hair. The next instant she had started with him to her feet, for there was a sharp crash as of some explosion, and, after a moment’s pause, a bellowing, rumbling roar, which shook the building to its foundations, and then seemed to roll into the distance and die away.

      How Tom Croftly took his Chastisement

      Sir Mark felt in anything but the best of tempers upon finding how thoroughly at home the stout parson of Roehurst was at the Pool-house. He had taken a dislike to him from the first, and the idea of his sharing the table with them at the next meal filled him with disgust.

      However, with all a courtier’s skill in hiding his own feelings, he smiled in reply to the founder’s remarks, and tried to interest himself in the process before him.

      It needed little effort, for, as a soldier, he could readily appreciate the shape and make of a good piece of artillery; and, setting aside all thought of Mace for the time being, he eagerly scanned the interior of the furnace-house.

      “What do you mean by all this, Master Cobbe?” he said, pleasantly. “I am sent down here to reprimand you, and give an ample report on what I see, and, after the first sharp encounter, I find you treat me as the best of friends. You give me your daughter’s society; you talk to me of your works; and now you are about to show me the secrets of your trade.”

      “And welcome,” cried the founder, bluffly. “See all, learn all, and tell all, for I have nought to conceal. My powder is good, and my guns are good; but that is from skill, of which no one can rob me, or take away. Any man can make powder or cast cannon, but few can do these things well. There, my lad, once for all, don’t you shrink from making what report you will. You will not offend me. But come, we are about to begin.”

      Sir Mark glanced round at the bright glow which lit up the whole place, and then at the furnace-mouth, from whose chinks a dazzling white light shone out, seeming to cut the darkness with long, thin rays, which struck the wall and the smoke-blackened, oaken beams that supported the roof, while it illumined the floor sufficiently to enable the visitor to see the dim figures of a couple of men, who were busy stooping over something in the middle of the building.

      This he felt was the mould, and into it he knew that ere long the furnace-door would be vomiting the molten metal in a dazzling state, so bright that his eyes would hardly be able to bear the glare. He did not speak, for the roar made by the vast bellows, whose air was burning away the impurities of the iron, was almost deafening, and he could see that a good deal of the work was earned on by signs.

      “A good time for a tête-à-tête with little Mace,” he muttered, as he saw the founder slip off his doublet and roll the linen shirt up over his muscular arms. Then the knight took the place pointed out to him as one likely to be out of harm’s way, and watched with eager interest the busy scene around.

      Now the furnace was being urged to greater heat, and the vivid flames and sparks rushed out into the sunshine; then the founder was seen to stand right in the intense glare, and evidently throw in some ingredient upon the molten metal which seemed to seethe and bubble, and rise in the furnace as if about to overflow, while dazzling flames of violet, orange, and silver-white danced over the molten mass, and formed, with the silvery scintillations, a scene that riveted the courtier’s eye.

      As he gazed upon the weird-looking figures, half glowing in the light, half-hidden in the darkness, or others whose heads or bodies alone were seen in the strong glow of the furnaces, there was an unreality in the scene that sent a thrill through him.

      “I would that big-tongued Jamie were here,” he muttered, “coming upon it all by night and gazing in at yon window; he’d think he had come upon a demon’s feast, and that the saints of Pandemonium were cooking hell-broth for all the witches and wizards of the land.”

      A shout from the founder roused him from his musings, and he shaded his eyes with his hands, and watched the furnace, whose light now grew more silvery every moment, and whose fluttering flames seemed to be more full of wondrous dyes. The light was sharper and more defined, and in the darkness below, where there were tiny points of light, shewing that there were crevices in the firebricks, Sir Mark could make out the figure of the founder standing with a great iron bar in his hands.

      Suddenly a door was opened, and the founder was seen to be plunging the long bar into the molten metal, when once more vivid beams of light flashed out, mingled with coruscations of sparks, which darted here and there in fierce battle as if contending together, exploding with a loud crackling noise as they met.

      Then once more the door was shut, and Sir Mark closed his eyes, which ached with the glare. The moment after he opened them to gaze upon the weird scene, as one after the other there came a series of loud strokes as of iron upon iron, and then from a bright star in the middle of the darkness, low down near the floor, a stream of pure liquid silver seemed to run, passing rapidly along the floor and suddenly disappearing.

      Quicker and quicker it seemed to gush out, with dazzling flames dancing over it as it sped along. The whole building now was glorious with light, and seemed transformed; beams, rugged stone walls, flooring, all were glistening as if suddenly coated with silver and gold; and as, with parted lips and eager eyes, the founder’s guest gazed upon the scene, and thought of how glorious was a cannon’s birth, there was a sudden crash as if heaven and earth had come together; he was struck backwards, hurled as it were against the wall behind, and then, finding himself close to a window-opening, half fell, half dropped out into the open air to stagger away amidst the débris of broken tiles and wood that had fallen around.

      He knew he was not hurt, but he felt confused and dazed as men from various parts ran up, women from the distant cottages came shrieking, and the occupants of the furnace-house, now roofless and smoking, staggered out panting and blackened, to look eagerly round at one another.

      “My father – where is my father?” cried Mace, running up wild-eyed and pale.

      There was no reply, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she ran over the broken fragments of stone and wood lying about, to the arched door, and stepped in amidst the blinding smoke and reeking steam.

      “Stop! oh, stop,” cried Sir Mark. “Good heavens, men, she will lose her life.”

      Roused by his words, a couple of the men ran after the excited girl, but only reached the door as the founder came out looking blackened and half stunned, leaning upon his daughter’s arm.

      “I can’t see any one there,” he cried, as soon as he was out, and he began looking round at his men. “Are you all here, my lads?”

      The men gazed at one another as if for the first time it had occurred to them that they ought to count their number, and at last, as Master Peasegood repeated the question, out of breath with his exertions to get there, some one exclaimed:

      “We be all here, Master.”

      “Then help me to a flagon of ale, Mace,” cried the founder.

      “But father, dear, you are hurt; you are burned. Quick, some one, help get him to the house.”

      “Nay, nay, child, I’m not much hurt, and, as no one else is, loose my arm. Where’s that Tom Croftly?”

      “Here I be, master,” said a gruff voice, and a grim, half-naked man, with the chest of a giant, came trembling forward, wiping the reek and sweat from his brow.

      “You clumsy, bull-headed fool,” roared