by the casement opening upon the rich, old-fashioned garden, was the favourite seat of the girl he had seen engaged in fishing as they came along.
“Sit you down, sir,” cried the bluff yeoman heartily, and, opening a cupboard in the wall, he took out a couple of Venetian flasks, and some tall glasses of a pale green veined with threads of opal hue, placed them on the table, and with them a leaden box, and a couple of thick-stemmed pipes with tiny bowls.
“Now, sir,” he continued, “that’s old sherry sack, and that’s metheglin of my daughter’s make. Here, Janet,” he shouted, “bring a big jug of ale from the second cask;” and in due time a good-looking, well-shaped girl bore in upon an old silver salver a battered flagon of clear ale, whose coolness was shown by the pearly dew rapidly deposited on the bright silver sides.
“Your good health, and welcome, sir,” said the yeoman, lifting the great silver flagon, raising the lid with his thumb, and taking a hearty draught. “Hah!” he ejaculated, drawing a long breath, as he set down the vessel. “I don’t suppose you would care to drink our common ale, my own brewing, though, and strong. But you do not drink, sir. Which shall it be?” and he stretched out his hand to push the flasks towards his guest.
“Business first, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Mark haughtily, as, taking his sheathed sword from where it hung, he rested it across his knees; “I have somewhat to say.”
“Will you smoke, then?” cried the sturdy yeoman, reaching his hand to the little pipes, and pushing the leaden box towards his guest.
“I never smoke, sir; I agree with his Majesty that it is an evil, noxious, and diabolical habit.”
“I do smoke, and I don’t agree with his Majesty,” said Cobbe, gruffly, as he proceeded to fill his pipe by means of a little silver stopper, for a child’s finger would hardly have passed into the bowl.
“I must request, sir, that you will refrain from smoking until I leave your house,” said the visitor sternly.
Jeremiah Cobbe’s face grew red with anger, but he smothered his annoyance, laid down his pipe, took a fresh draught of ale, let the lid fall with a clink, and threw himself back in his chair.
“Go on then, sir,” he cried. “I shall be glad to hear what business you have to settle with me. If it is for half-a-dozen culverins for his Majesty’s army, or by the good Peter, I have it, he has got to know about my new howitzers, and he has sent to see. Now, how the holy ’postle did he get to know about them?”
“My good fellow, have the kindness to listen to me,” said Sir Mark.
“Good fellow, eh!” cried Cobbe, flushing again, and smiting the table with his fist. “But there, go on, sir, go on; you are a messenger to me from the King.”
“His 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
