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

Majesty,” said Sir Mark, leaning back in his chair, and half-closing his eyes, as he gazed imperiously at the other, “has had it brought to his knowledge that you, Jeremiah Cobbe, of Roehurst, in the county of Sussex.”

      “Right,” said the other nodding.

      ” – Have for years past, and in divers manners, carried on here a forge for cannon castings.”

      “I have, and of the best and toughest iron ever smelted in the south. His Majesty never heard of one of my pieces bursting.”

      “That you also carry on some works wherein, without leave or licence, you make largely that dangerous and deadly material known as gunpowder.”

      “Dangerous, and deadly too,” chuckled the bluff yeoman, “if it gets into foolish hands. It’s true enough, and my best dogwood charcoal makes the strongest powder to be had.”

      “A material which his Majesty holds in utter abhorrence and detestation, ever since his devilish and malignant enemies, aided and abetted by Popish treasonable priests, essayed to destroy the Houses of Parliament and kill and slay his most sacred person.”

      “No wonder, sir,” chuckled Cobbe. “Enough to make any man abhor powder. But hark ye, one barrel of mine would have been enough to shake the place about their ears.”

      “That this cannon and this powder of your manufacture you have for years past regularly and by your own design sold, furnished, and supplied to his sacred Majesty’s enemies in various parts of the world. These treasonable practices he now wots of, at least by report, and I am his messenger to you, sir, to know if they are true. What have you to say?”

      “What have I to say, boy!” cried the cannon founder, flushing angrily as he leaned forward, set his elbows on the table, and gazed full at his visitor. “What have I to say? Nothing at all. I do make cannons, and I do make powder, the best I can, and I sell them to those who’ll buy. I offered to supply his Majesty with guns of which he might be proud, and some Jack-in-office refused my offer, so I sell them where I will.”

      “To his Majesty’s enemies?”

      “Hang his enemies; I know not who gets them when they are shipped away and I am paid.”

      “You avow then, boldly, that you do supply these munitions of warfare to other than the King’s liege subjects?”

      “Avow, man, yes. I sell to who will give me a good price; and look here, my gaily-feathered young Tom chick, this is not London city, and my house is not the Court. Don’t speak to me as if I were one of your servants and hangers-on.”

      “You are insolent, sir,” cried Sir Mark angrily. “If I report all this and your treasonable words, the result may be a body of his Majesty’s soldiers despatched to raze your works to the ground, and march you back to London to take your trial.”

      “Let them come,” cried the founder, now giving the fury he had pent up its full vent; “let them come, and I’ll give them such a reception as will make your Powder Plot seem a trifle. Why, do you know, my velvet and silken popinjay, that we have good men and true down here, enough to tickle the ears of as many of your fellows as you like to send.”

      “Silence, sir!” cried Sir Mark; “do you dare to set at naught the King’s.”

      “Damn the King!” cried the founder furiously, “damn the King for a porridge-eating, witch-hunting old fool!”

      “Insolent dog,” cried Sir Mark.

      “What!” retorted the founder, “do you pull your blade on me? Then you shall see that we have steel as well.”

      Sir Mark had risen and drawn his sword, evidently with some mad idea that it was his duty to arrest this utterer of treason on the spot; but, with an activity of which he might not have been believed capable, Jeremiah Cobbe sprang to the side of the room, snatched a sword from the wall, drew, and crossed that of the young courtier. There was a harsh grating, a few quick thrusts and parries, as the open window was slightly darkened, and Sir Mark uttered a sharp cry, for his adversary’s sword passed like lightning through his arm, and he staggered back, as an upbraiding voice exclaimed – “Oh, father, father, what have you done?”

      How Sir Mark Stayed at the Park House, and jeremiah cobbe delivered a Homily on Angling

      It was Mace’s voice, as she ran into the room, pale with horror when she saw the red blood darken the russet velvet of the young man’s sleeve.

      “Done!” cried Cobbe, “What do I always do, my girl? Acted like the passionate old fool I am. Poor boy!” he ejaculated, as the sword dropped from Sir Mark’s hand, and white as Mace’s self the King’s messenger sank fainting on his adversary’s arm, to be lowered gently to the floor. “God knows, child, I’d give five hundred pounds to undo it all. He angered me, and drew, and the sight of the naked steel made the blood come into my eyes. Poor boy – poor boy! A brave youth, though he fretted and strutted and bullied me so. That’s better. Hi, Janet, some cold water. Stop, child, don’t rip his fine jacket or he’ll break his heart. My faith on it, he’ll think more of the holes in his velvet than in his skin. Steady! hold him up a little, and I’ll strip off his fine coat. That’s it; now, a little more; never mind the drop of blood, it won’t kill him.”

      “I know, father,” said Mace, “but put away those swords;” and she held up the wounded man’s head as her father cleverly removed the velvet doublet and turned up the fine white linen shirt, whose sleeve was stained with blood. The wound could now be seen, or rather wounds – two narrow clean cuts on either side of the fleshy part of the arm, from which the blood pretty freely welled.

      “Now lay his head down again, my child. No: better not. Here’s Janet. Sake’s girl! Don’t stand staring. Put the basin here. Some strips of linen. That’s right, child,” he continued, as Mace snatched off her white kerchief and tore it up.

      “It weighs full thirty pounds,” cried a hearty voice in the entry. “Hey, hallo, what’s wrong? A wounded man?”

      “Ay!” cried the founder. “Quick, Gil, you are a good chirurgeon;” and the new-comer – to wit, Mace’s companion on the Pool – strode in, went down on one knee, and without a word dipped a portion of the linen in the cold water, removed the blood, and with the skill of an adept made a couple of pads, and cleverly bound up the wound.

      “Give him a little of the strong waters,” he cried, and the founder hurriedly fetched a flask and held a glass to the wounded man’s lips before the new-comer said briefly, “How was it?”

      “Oh, he angered and drew on me, and we had a few passes,” cried the founder. “My own fault, too.”

      “It is a mere nothing,” said the other. “Why Mace, my child, don’t look so white. He is a soldier evidently, and he’ll bear it like a man.”

      “Am I white, Gil?” said the girl, looking up and smiling sadly, as she thought of how her life seemed cast among warlike weapons and their works. “I am not frightened, only troubled. Father, dear, this is so sad.”

      “It is, it is, my child. I’d have given half I have sooner than it should have happened. Hush, he’s coming to.”

      For just then the injured man sighed, opened his eyes wonderingly, gazed upwards to see who supported him, and lowered his lids again, saying softly —

      “The face of an angel: is this Heaven?”

      “Oh, no,” cried the amateur surgeon, frowning slightly as he saw Mace colour, “and if you were here sometimes, when friend Cobbe is casting cannon, you’d think it was the other place. Come, sir, let me help you up. It is a mere flesh wound, and will only smart.”

      “Thank you, I can rise,” said Sir Mark, reddening, as he made an effort and rose without assistance; but the room seemed to swim round, and he staggered and would have fallen, had not his surgeon caught him by the uninjured arm, and helped him to a seat, letting him gently down into a half-reclining position.

      As he did so the eyes of the two young men met, and Gilbert Carr, as he