Nick yelled out:
“ ’Tis the Hall, neighbours. The roof be blazin’.”
Agatha, very pale, hurried back into the cottage. Martha observed, less tearfully:
“Lard, presarve us! That pore soul in bed needs rousin’. This’ll do it. Here be Timothy Farleigh.”
Timothy stood in his doorway. His deepset eyes smouldered sullenly. Not a word escaped from his tightly-compressed lips. Nicodemus piped shrilly at him:
“Timothy, man, old Hall be afire.”
“Let ’un burn,” replied Timothy, in diapason tones. “Let ’un burn, I says.”
The Ancient glared at him.
“Shame on ’ee—shame! Think o’ the good liquor down cellar.”
“Let ’un burn, I says.”