"A fire!" said one. "Let's burn down the old mill. There's wood enough in it."
"Ay," said another, "wood enough for a hundred fires."
A shout of applause greeted this proposal, but the hearers above felt their hearts quail with horror. Talbot laid her hand on Brooke's arm. Brooke, to reassure her, took her hand in his and pressed it gently, and felt it cold and tremulous. He drew her nearer to him, and whispered softly in her ear,
"Don't be alarmed. At the worst, we can give ourselves up. Trust to me."
Talbot drew a long breath, and made a desperate effort to master her fears; but the scene below grew more and more terrible. The wild shout of approbation which followed the proposal to bum the mill was caught up by one after another, till at last the whole band was filled with that one idea. A dozen men rushed inside, and began to hammer, and tear, and pull at the flooring and other parts of the wood-work, while others busied themselves with preparing splints with which to kindle the fire.
"Brooke," whispered Talbot, in a tremulous voice—"oh, Brooke, let us go down."
"Wait—not yet," said Brooke, on whose brow cold drops of perspiration were already standing. "Wait. Let us see what they will do."
Talbot drew back with a shudder.
"The mill is of stone," said Brooke. "They can't burn it."
"But all the inside is of wood," said Talbot—"the floors, the doors, the machinery, the beams."