The fitful flicker of the torch, as the resin became ignited, threw the more distant figure of the woman into complete gloom.
Then there was a sudden shout of triumph. The torch was blazing at last.
"The holy fire! . . . Burn the witch!"
John the smith, holding the torch aloft, inspired by the enthusiasm of his friends, had turned towards the steps.
For the space of one second the red glow illumined that helpless bundle of gaudy tinsel only dimly suggesting a woman's form beneath it, which hung limply from the flagstaff.
Then Wessex understood.
He had already drawn nigh, attracted by idle curiosity, but now with one bound he reached the steps. Striking out with his fists at two or three men who barred the way, he suddenly stood confronting these miscreants, the light of the torch glowing on the rich silk of his doublet, the jewelled agraffe of his hat, his proud, serious face almost distorted by overwhelming wrath.
"What damnable piece of mischief is this?" he said peremptorily.
He had scarcely raised his voice, for they were all silent, having retreated somewhat at sight of this stranger who barred the way.
The instinct of submission and deference to the lord was inborn in the country lout of these days. Their first movement was one of respectful awe. But this was only momentary. The excitement was too great, too real, to give way to this gallant, alone with only an elegant sword to stand between him and the mad desire for the witch's death.