“Got to carry bags of powder.”
“Well, I shall be there.”
“But s’pose the Darleys fight you, Master Mark?”
“They will not, Dummy,” cried Mark. “Let go.”
And pressing the cob’s sides, the little animal bounded over the narrow bridge, and would have galloped in a break-neck fashion down the steep zigzag but for the strong hand at the rein.
The pony had its own way, though, along the rough track by the river, on past Master Rayburn’s peaceful cottage, and away again, till at a bend of the stream the rider saw a cloud of smoke hanging over the ravens’ cliff, and soon after caught sight of one corner of the castle, with the glorious beeches and sycamores low down, and birches high up, scorched and shrivelled; and now he saw through an alley burned by the flames driven downward by the wind that the beautiful old pile was reduced to a shell, in whose interior the smoke was still rising from a heap of smouldering wood.
As he drew nearer, and crossed the ford which led to the steep path up, he saw on one of the terrace platforms quite a crowd of women and children, collected from the outlying cottages and farms, all standing gazing at the smoking ruins; and on one side there was a little group of men, some standing, others sitting and lying down upon the stones.
“And if it had not been for Dummy our place might have been like this,” thought Mark, as he rode up. The men, as they caught sight of him, began to rise to their feet, two or three actively, the others as if in pain, but all wearing a savage scowl.
But Mark did not shrink. He rode right past the women, and drew rein, as Nick Garth said fiercely:
“Well, youngster, have you come to enjoy’s morning’s work?”