XXIII
It was Jenny who first wakened in the house on the hill, for she slept lightly as a young mother does. And yet when she woke, sleep was not wholly out of her eyes and mind, and it seemed to her that it was morning, and that Sam, her good Sam, was up betimes in the kitchen. She heard the fine crackling, at first a mere crepitation, of the crawling flame, and felt comfortable as one does at the notion of the good creature fire, the greatest servant of man. Deep in the hearts of men lies the love of it, for fire has served them through the innumerable generations of their rise from those who knew it not. A million ancestors of each have sat by brave flames in dark woodlands and have warmed themselves and found comfort in all the storms of the open world. For the house is the fire, the covering of the fire, and the hearth is the great altar, where a daily sacrifice is made to the gods.
She fell asleep again.
And then she smelt smoke and roused herself suddenly and saw a strange light outside in the darkness. The fire flickered like a serpent's tongue, and she saw it, and her heart went cold. For the servant becomes a tyrant, and the god is oftentimes cruel to his people. She clutched the child, and with her other hand caught hold of George. She cried to him aloud, and even before he was awake he stood upon the floor, knowing that some enemy was at hand. And even then the red enemy looked in at the window and there was the tinkle of broken glass.
"Oh, this is Pete's work," he said. But he said it not aloud. "Get up, girl. Come, tenas," he cried. He opened the door and found the house full of smoke. Below, he heard the work of the fire. And the outer wall below the window was one flame.
"This is Pete's work," he said. And he said to himself—
"What of the Mill?"
Jenny clutched the baby to her bosom, and he slammed the door to. It was not the first time he had met fire and he understood it. He wetted a handkerchief and tied it over his own mouth. There were some who would have wondered at his swiftness, and the cool courage of him in so threatening a fight. He bound wet rags across the brave lifted mouth of Jenny, and the child cried as he did the same for him. Then he caught her in his arms and rushed the stairs, and as he ran he called aloud, "Sam, Sam!"
The smoke was pungent, acrid, suffocating, and the heat of the air already cracked the skin. Out of the smoke he saw licking tongues of flame, flame curious and avid, searching, strenuous, alive. One tongue licked at him and he smelt, among all the other odours of the fire, the smell of singed hair. He heard the crying of the child, its outraged mind working angrily. Jenny whimpered a little. Her hand was steel about him. He rushed an opaque veil of blinding smoke, interpenetrated by lightnings, and bull-headed burst in Sam's door. He heard the boy cry out. But they were saved, if it were not that Pete stood outside to kill those whom he had driven from their shelter. That might be; Quin knew it. And yet he could not go first. Sam caught his arm.