"Canst make out yonder standard?" asked Firestone, indicating the flag.
"Nay, 'tis o'er far," I replied.
"It must be the castle of Restormel, of which Captain Dawe spoke. That being so, 'tis the standard of the Hoptons that flies over it."
"The rebels are in a great state of activity," he continued, "and, judging by their defence works, I trove that they expect an attack. But we must keep an eye on the trap-door, lest the rogues make an attack under cover of the smoke."
By this time the fire had died out, and, though the atmosphere within the belfry was charged with choking fumes, we could breathe with but little difficulty. Looking down, we saw the lower room was deserted, and the ominous silence filled us with misgivings.
The sun had set, and twilight was drawing in apace. Thirst and hunger began to make their presence felt, and in desperation I suggested to Firestone that, when it grew dark, we should descend by means of the bell-ropes knotted together, and take the risk of capture rather than starve where we were.
"Yes," he replied shortly. "We can but try."
We immediately set about unfastening the remaining ropes, out of which we made one stout rope of double thickness, sufficiently long to reach the ground.
The oppressive silence still continued, although from the church itself came the discordant sounds of the lawless soldiery.
"Hist! Someone comes!" I whispered, as the now familiar noise of footsteps stumbling up the spiral staircase became audible.