King of the Castle. Fenn George Manville

victims of this deplorable mishap.

      It was nearly half-a-mile along the rough cliff road; and it was traversed in silence, Claude being too much agitated to say more.

      The scene was easy enough to find when they were approaching the place, for a knot of rough quarry workmen were gathered round a clean-looking, white-washed cottage, from out of whose open door came the harsh tones of a man’s voice, while the crowd parted left and right, and several placed the short black pipes they were smoking hurriedly in their pockets.

      Claude had nearly reached the door when the words which were being uttered within the cottage seemed to act like a spell, arresting her steps and making her half turn shuddering away, as they seemed to lash her, so keenly and cuttingly they fell.

      “Curse you! curse you! It’s all your doing. You’ve murdered me. Sarah, my girl, he has done for me at last.”

      Gartram’s voice was heard in low, deep, muttering tones, as if in reproof; but the injured man’s voice overbore it directly, sounding shrill and harsh from agony as he cried, —

      “Let every one outside hear it. Hark ye, lads, I wanted to use the dinnymite, but he made me use the cursed old powder again, and he has murdered me.”

      “My good man,” said a fresh voice, which sounded clear in the silence, “you must be calm. It was a terrible accident.”

      “Nay, doctor, it’s his doing; it’s his meanness. I wanted him to use the dinnymite, and he would keep to powder. He has murdered me.”

      There was a low groan, and then a terrible cry; and as Glyddyr mentally pictured the scene within, of the doctor dressing the injuries, he turned to the trembling girl beside him.

      “Miss Gartram,” he whispered, “this is no place for you. There is plenty of help. Let me see you home.”

      She shook her head as she looked at him wildly, and, making a deprecating gesture, Glyddyr turned to one of the men.

      “Is he very bad?” he whispered.

      “Blowed a’most to bits,” said the man in a hoarse whisper.

      “Did the powder go off too soon?”

      “It warn’t powder at all,” said the man, as Gartram stepped quickly out of the cottage. “It were the dinnymite. He would use it, and he warn’t used to its ways.”

      It was evident from the peculiar tightening of Gartram’s lips that he had heard the man’s words; and he turned back and re-entered the cottage, for his name was sharply pronounced within.

      Then there was another groan, and the injured man cried, —

      “Don’t, don’t; you’re killing me.”

      At that moment a thin, keen-looking woman of about thirty rushed out of the cottage, her eyes wild and staring, and her face blanched, while her hands and apron were horribly stained.

      “I can’t bear it,” she cried; “I can’t bear it!” and she flung herself upon her knees in the stony road, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing hysterically.

      The sight of the suffering woman roused Claude to action; and as she took a couple of steps forward, and with the tears falling fast, laid her hand upon the woman’s shoulder, a low murmur arose among the men, and Glyddyr saw that they drew back respectfully, several turning right away.

      “Sarah, my poor Sarah,” said Claude, bending low.

      At the tender words of sympathy and the touch of the gentle hands, the woman let her own fall from her face, and stared up appealingly at the speaker.

      Claude involuntarily shrank away from the ghastly face, for the hands had printed hideous traces upon the woman’s brow.

      The shrinking away was momentary, for, recovering herself. Claude drew her handkerchief from her pocket, to turn in surprise as it was drawn from her hand, but she directly gave Glyddyr a grateful look, as she saw him step to a rough granite trough into which a jet of pure water was pouring from the cliff, and saturating it quickly, he returned the handkerchief to its owner.

      But before the blood stains could be removed, the voice of the injured man was heard calling.

      “Sarah! Don’t leave me, my girl. He has murdered me.”

      The woman gave Claude a wild look, rose from her knees, and tottered back to the cottage as the voice of Gartram was heard in angry retort.

      “Its like talking to a madman, Ike Woodham,” came clear and loud; “but you’ve got hurt by your own wilful obstinacy, and you want to throw the blame on me.”

      As he spoke, Gartram strode out of the cottage, and then whispered to his child, —

      “Come home, my dear. You can do no good.”

      “No, no; not yet, papa,” she whispered. “I must try if I can help poor Sarah in her terrible trouble.”

      A low murmur arose from the little crowd, and this seemed to excite Gartram.

      “Well,” he cried fiercely, “what does that mean? It was his own fault – in direct opposition to my orders; and this is not the first accident through your own folly.”

      The low, angry muttering continued.

      “Here, come away, Claude,” cried Gartram fiercely, as he looked round at the lowering faces.

      “He has murdered me, I tell you!” came from the open cottage door.

      “Bah!” ejaculated Gartram angrily, and he strode away, but returned directly.

      “Are you coming, my girl?”

      “Yes, papa, soon. Let me see if I can be of use.”

      “Look here, Mr Glyddyr,” said Gartram, speaking in a low, excited voice, “I can’t stop. I shall be saying things that will make them mad. See after Claude, and bring her home. The senseless idiots! If a man bruises himself with his own hammer, it is blamed on me.”

      He strode away, and ignoring Glyddyr’s presence, Claude was moving softly toward the door, when the man who had brought the message held out his hand to arrest her.

      “Don’t go in, dear bairn,” he said in a husky whisper; “it isn’t for the likes of you to see.”

      “Thank you, Wolfe,” she said calmly, “I am not afraid.”

      But at that moment, as Glyddyr was about to make a protest, a quiet-looking, gentlemanly man appeared at the door turning down his cuffs, the perspiration glistening upon his high white forehead as he came out into the sun.

      “No, no, my dear child,” he said in a whisper, as a low moaning came from within and seemed to be followed by the low soft washing of the waves below. “You can do no good.”

      “Is – is he very bad, Doctor Asher?” asked Claude.

      He looked at her for an instant or two without replying, and then bent his head.

      “Oh!” ejaculated Claude, with a low cry of pain.

      “Terribly crushed, my dear; better leave them together alone.”

      “But – you do not think – oh, Doctor Asher, you can save him?”

      “Is it so bad as that, sir?” whispered Glyddyr, as he saw the peculiar look in the doctor’s face. “Couldn’t you – with more help – shall I send?”

      “My dear sir,” said the doctor in a low voice, “half a dozen of the crack London surgeons couldn’t save him.”

      “Oh!” sighed Claude again. “But a clergyman. Mr Glyddyr, would you go into Danmouth?”

      “Better not, my dear child,” said the doctor quietly. “You know their peculiar tenets. His wife was praying with him when I came out.”

      As if to endorse the doctor’s words, the low, constant murmur of a voice was heard from within, and from time to time a gasping utterance was heard, and then twice over the word “Amen.”

      Just then