"Hurray, master," cried the man. "Give me my hat, wife. Dal me! but that's good news again." "Thou'lt go on making powder again--so soon?" said Master Peasegood, as the founder joined them, and they went down the lane. "Yes," said the founder firmly. "Gil, when thou com'st back, my lad, there will be some score barrels of the best and strongest make. I want to show people that an old hag's curses are as light as wind." "Ay, and that a bad mishap is not to be taken as a judgment, because a would-be soothsayer says 'tis so," cried Master Peasegood. "Thou'rt right, Master Cobbe. I thank Heaven I spoke to you both as bravely as I did, for my heart misgave me all the while." The next morning the smoke rolled up once more from the furnace chimney. The great wheel turned and plashed as it shed showers of silver from its broad paddles and spokes; blackened men bore baskets of soft dogwood charcoal to be ground, and others shovelled up the pale yellow sulphur and the crystals of potash for mixing into powder once again. Two heavy tumbrils jolted and blundered down the cinder-made lane to fetch great loads of ironstone from the pits in the woods whence it was dug, and then fierce furnaces were charged with layers of ore and charcoal ready for smelting, while the horses tugged at their loads in answer to the uncouth cries of the men. It was as if the people of Roehurst had awakened from sleep, and all were rejoicing in the gladsome feeling of being once more at work after their enforced idleness, the change acting like a spur. There was shouting over the various works, and now and then some one burst forth into a song, some doleful love-ditty about a sweet young maiden, sung in a minor key. Tom Croftly was in his element once more, and after seeing the furnaces started and the men preparing the next batch of powder, he anxiously set his colliers to work to get him more coal.