"Not well," said the founder, gloomily. "I liked Gil. You rob him of the woman he meant to be his wife. Why take his liberty as well?" "Master Cobbe, this is wretched drivel," cried Sir Mark, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "What am I to think of it?" "What you will," said the founder, sullenly; "I like not my part at all." "And you will betray my plans?" said Sir Mark, angrily. "Nay!" exclaimed the founder, sharply, as something of his old mien showed itself in his countenance. "Sir Mark Leslie, I am a rough yeoman of the country, but I have something of the gentleman at my heart. You insult me by your suspicions. I gave you my word, and my hand upon it, that my child should be your wife, and I repent me of it now; but Jeremiah Cobbe is not the man to go back from his word, and, sooner than Gil Carr should forcibly carry her away, I'd take him myself, and deliver him into your hand." "I did but jest, father," said Sir Mark, grasping the founder's hand. "Now, let us see something of pretty little Mace for an hour, before I perfect my plans." Janet was summoned, but she announced that her mistress was busy preparing things for her departure, and the girl hurried back to Mace's room, to gloat over the silk dresses and presents that lay about. Other messages were sent to Mace in the course of the evening, but she refused to come, and at last, out of patience, as the soft autumn night began to fall, Sir Mark went out to finish his arrangements. "You are master, to-day, my lady," he muttered; "to-morrow I shall rule, and you'll know it too." Had Gil dared to post a man nearer to the house, he would have known of the preparations made to entrap him, though possibly they would not have kept him back. As it was he knew nothing of the well-armed soldiers who, punctual to the moment, marched across the bridge, and were rapidly disposed in suitable places by Sir Mark, who exhibited no mean generalship in his plans. Then came the waiting, and Sir Mark stood listening with the founder by his side. "They'll not come," said the latter, impatiently, after a weary while. "Hist! there is one," whispered Sir Mark, as a footstep cautiously crossed the bridge. "Why it is a woman," said the founder. "A disguise," replied Sir Mark. "Gil himself." "Nay, it is Mother Goodhugh. I know her walk and her tap with her stick. The old hag! I'll go and turn her back. What does she want?" "Bah! be silent, man; she comes to see the maids--fortune-telling, or to beg for something in the way of cakes or wine. I'll not have my plans spoiled now. Hist! what's that?" It was a heavier foot this time, and unmistakeably Gil and a companion had arrived. Then followed the rustling of the ladder, the waiting, the signal whistle, and, when the bridge had been closed, Sir Mark's summons to surrender. Lights flashed upon the dark scene as Sir Mark's command rang out, and Gil saw that he and his men were far outnumbered.