"Yes, yes," she cried. "Powder, powder--the cursed stuff. Cobbe's work; Cobbe's work. He slew my dear with it, and now--ha, ha, ha! I have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here." Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it, as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly grotesque. "Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped--that wedding--Mistress Anne--the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did--I stopped it. Do you hear? I got the key--the powder-cellar, and laid a train--a long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the garden--there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder," she panted, pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled. "I did it--I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me--all of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark's men--and then I struck with my flint and steel--and the fire--ran along the ground--and the powder blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and--and--why is it daylight? Why does the sun shine?" she continued, gazing wildly from one to the other. "She's daft," growled Wat. "Poor soul! they have frightened away her wits." "Silence," cried Gil. "Let her speak." "Who says I'm daft?" cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. "I am not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas' Jeremiah Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store." "She thinks it is a year ago," muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror. "Yes, yes. I've had my revenge," muttered the old woman, gazing round wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, "and burnt his place. He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor child! poor child! poor child!" "Mother Goodhugh," cried Gil hoarsely, "did you fire the Pool-house?" "Yes, yes, yes; the powder," gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. "I did it well; and now I'll forgive him. I'll curse Mas' Cobbe no more. I did it just now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands--my hair, but never mind; I've had revenge." "Then it was you who fired the powder there--that dreadful night," cried Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.