“Make yourself at home,” said Hemsworth, “for I'll give you a lease for three lives of it—yours, Wylie's, and mine own—will that satisfy you?”
The fellow stared at the speaker, and then looked at Wylie, as if not knowing whether to place any faith in the words he heard.
“I didn't say you were to get the premises in good repair, however,” said Hemsworth, with a bitter laugh, “I didn't boast much about the roof,” and at the same moment he took a lighted turf from the hearth, and thrust it into the thatch, while Wylie, to curry favour with his patron, imitated his example.
“Where does that door lead to?” said Hemsworth, pointing to the small portal, which led into the rock towards the stable.
“That's the way to the stable,” said Wylie, as he opened it, and looked down the passage; “and here's another door, that I never saw before.”
“That's where she do keep the spirits, sir,” said one of the men; “'tis there she do have all the liquor.”
“There's nothing like whiskey for a blaze,” said Hemsworth, with a half drunken laugh. “Burst open that door!”—but all their efforts were vain: it was made with every precaution of strength, and studded over with strong nails.
“Stop!” said Hemsworth, as he pushed the others rudely away, “there's a readier plan than yours to force it. I'll blow the lock to pieces!” and, so saying, he took the pistol from Wylie's hand, and, having leisurely examined the priming and the flint, placed the muzzle in the lock.
“Be quick, sir, be quick!” said Wylie; “the place is filling with smoke!”
And so it was: the crackling of the thatch, and the dense masses of black smoke that filled the cabin, showed that the work of destruction was begun.