The cook-executioner blew at his brands, but he was nervous, or clumsy, and a minute or more went by before they flamed. At length one was fit for the task, and unwillingly enough he stooped to lift it up.
Then it was that in the midst of the intense silence, for of all that multitude none seemed even to breathe, and old Bridget, who had fainted, cried no more, a bull’s voice was heard beyond the brow of the hill, roaring—
“In the King’s name, stay! In the King’s name, stay!”
All turned to look, and there between the trees appeared a white horse, its sides streaked with blood, that staggered rather than galloped towards them, and on the horse a huge, red-bearded man, clad in mail and holding in his hand a woodman’s axe.
“Fire the faggots!” shouted the Abbot, but the cook, who was not by nature brave, had already let fall his torch, which went out on the damp ground.
By now the horse was rushing through them, treading them under foot. With great, convulsive bounds it reached the ring and, as the rider leapt from its back, rolled over and lay there panting, for its strength was done.
“It is Thomas Bolle!” exclaimed a voice, while the Abbot cried again—
“Fire the faggots! Fire the faggots!” and a soldier ran to fetch another brand.
But Thomas was before him. Snatching up the brazier by its legs he smote downwards with it so that the burning charcoal fell all about the soldier and the iron cage remained fixed upon his head, shouting as he smote—
“You sought fire—take it!”