"Nay, nay, the master's right enough, though he did hit hard. I ought to ha' looked after the trade." "What are you doing there, Abel Churr?" cried the ironfounder. "Here, Mace, lass, fetch me that ale." "What am I doing here, Mas' Cobbe?" said the adder-hunter, as Mace ran off, satisfied now that her father was not hurt. "I heard the blowing up, and I knew some one would be burned, so I came. You'll want a bit of adder's fat for them burns, Mas' Cobbe." "Out with thy trash!" cried the founder, angrily. "Here, you Tom Croftly, rise up and I'll smite you down again." The great fellow began to rise slowly, with the obedience of a dog, but the parson interposed:-- "Nay, nay, Master Cobbe; thou hast done enough beating." "The master's quite right," said the foundryman; "I ought to have looked after the trade." "Right! Yes, you dolt!" cried Cobbe, angrily. "Have I not told you all a hundred times that every mould must be quite dry? and here you let me run the iron into one that must be half full of water." "I see to it all two hours ago, master," said the foundryman; "and it was bravely dry, but I ought to have looked again, only somehow Mother Goodhugh coming put it out of my head." "And what did Mother Goodhugh come to you for?" said the founder, angrily. "She come to help me to something for my little one who's a bit weak this last month, master." "If you want to see Mother Goodhugh, you go to her," cried the founder. "But for a chance, half of us might be lying stiff and cold--nay, parson, stiff and hot, roasted and scalded, and cooked by the iron and steam. There, get to work and clear up, and we must have all put to rights again. Tom Croftly, you've put a hundred good pounds out of my pouch through not seeing to that mould." The great foundryman rose up now, nodding and shaking his head, while his master turned to his guest. "I never thought any more about you, Sir Mark," he said. "Not hurt, I hope," he continued, taking the flagon from Mace, and drawing up the lid with a clink; "Here, take a draught of this." "More frightened than hurt," said Sir Mark, taking the flagon, bowing to Mace, and raising it to his lips. "It was startling," said the founder, grimly. "I say, squire, you can put that in the report to His Majesty. Ha, ha, ha!" he continued, after a pull at the ale. "If he had been here he'd have thought all the witches in Christendom had come about his ears, and here's Mother Goodhugh again." There was a buzz in the little crowd, as the old woman came near to climb upon a heap of furnace-cinder, and stand pointing to the disroofed shed, mouthing and grinning maliciously. "Cursed," she cried; "cursed, all cursed. Bide and rest, all of you, and see how all I say will be fulfilled. Ha, ha, ha! How the wicked fall!"