Pursuing this resolve to make his task complete, he came back to the first house and looked at his fire. It had already spread to the larger pieces of pine, and it could not go out now. The sound made by the flames blended exactly with the roaring of the wind, and another minute or two might pass before the Iroquois detected it.
Now his heart throbbed again, and exultation was mingled with his anger. By the time the Iroquois were aroused to the danger the flames would be so high that the wind would reach them. Then no one could put them out.
It might have been safer for him to flee deep into the forest at once, but that lingering desire to make his task complete and, also, the wish to see the result kept him from doing it. He merely walked across the open space and stood behind a tree at the edge of the forest.
Braxton Wyatt and his Tories and Iroquois were very warm, very snug, in the shelter of the old house with the great bed of coals before them. They may even have been dreaming peaceful and beautiful dreams, when suddenly an Iroquois sprang to his feet and uttered a cry that awoke all the rest.
“I smell smoke!” he exclaimed in his tongue, “and there is fire, too! I hear it crackle outside!”
Braxton Wyatt ran to the window and jerked it open. Flame and smoke blew in his face. He uttered an angry cry, and snatched at the pistol in his belt.
“The whole side of the house is on fire!” he exclaimed. “Whose neglect has done this?”
Coleman, shrewd and observing, was at his elbow.
“The fire was set on the outside,” he said. “It was no carelessness of our men. Some enemy has done this!”
“It is true!” exclaimed Wyatt furiously. “Out, everybody! The house burns fast!”