Not a word was spoken, and the roughly-clad, brown-faced men went steadily on. Their load was changed from time to time, and after a while a stoppage was made by a stream, where Mother Goodhugh's face was bathed, and the leader, whom it would have puzzled his best friends to have taken for Gilbert Carr, knelt beside her, and poured a few drops of spirits between her lips. "Think she's burned, captain?" said a rough voice that could be none other than that of Wat Kilby. "No," was the reply, "but I fear we were too late. She will hardly live to our journey's end. Forward, my lads, forward! Did anyone see aught of Master Cobbe?" "I saw him turn away and go behind the cart," said one of the men. "He was not in the fight." "And Master Peasegood?" "I helped him up, captain, and he staggered to the bank, and sat down on a half-burned faggot." "Then they are all right," said the captain, musingly. "Wat, we shall have to be off to sea again at once. This affair will make the country too hot to hold us." "Why did you do it then?" growled the old man, gruffly, as he limped along, his scarred face shining in the sun. "She was no good, and will only curse us for our pains." "Well, Wat," said the captain, sadly, "and if she does, we can bear another curse or too." "Ay, or a hundred," was the reply. It was a hot walk, through the still woods and over streams and ravine-scored hills. The men, as they grew heated, stripped off their rough country Saxon gaberdines, and appeared as light, active seamen of the time, one and all taking turns in carrying Mother Goodhugh, for whom a rough kind of hurdle had been hastily twisted together, and upon it she was laid. At last the little party was ascending one rugged side of the valley where Anne Beckley had been left to wait the coming of her lover; and after a weary climb the men all had a rest, seating themselves by the spring that gushed from the rocks where the ferns and mosses hung, and after tempering the clear fluid with spirit they began to smoke. "Let her rest for a time," said Gil; "there is no danger here. Poor soul! A narrow escape from death." As he spoke he covered the wretched creature with a cloak, and placed a doubled gaberdine beneath hothead. He again trickled a few drops of spirits between the cracked white lips; and, after watching its effects, he rose from his knees, leaving Wat Kilby to fill his little pipe. "Not much of a job after a twelvemonths' cruise," muttered Wat, as he limped uneasily up and down, "but better than leaving the poor old lass to burn. She's too old and ugly, or she might have done; for I want a wife. Bah! No. She wouldn't do. She's not the witch I want. Eh! captain, did you call?" "Yes," was the reply; and, on rising, the old lieutenant scrambled up to where Gil, who looked bronzed and ten years older, stood pointing to the stones at the mouth of the store. "Not been touched, eh, skipper?" said the old fellow.