John Pooke rested on his oar, and turned.
From behind an orchard a glow, as of fire, was shining. It had broken forth suddenly. The light streamed between the trees, sending fiery arrows shooting over the water, it rose in a halo above the tops of the trees.
“Kate! whatever can it be? That is our orchard. There is our rick-yard behind. It never can be that our ricks are afire, or our house! The house is just beyond. The blaze is at our place--pull hard!”
“It’s a chance if there is water enough to carry us ashore.”
Then, from above the belt of orchard broke lambent flame, and cast up tufts of ignited matter into the air, to be caught and carried away by the strong wind. Now there lay a fiery path between the ferry-boat and the shore. Pooke seated himself. He was greatly agitated.
“Kate, it is our rick-yard. That chap, Roger, has done it.”
The words had hardly escaped him before a boat shot past, and his oar clashed with that of the rower in that boat. As it passed, John saw the face of the man who was rowing, kindled by the orange blaze from the shore. The recognition was instantaneous.
“Redmore, it is you!” Then breathlessly, “Kate, about! we must catch him. He has set our ricks ablaze.”
The boat was headed round, and the young arms bent at the oars, and the little vessel flew in pursuit. The man they were pursuing rowed clumsily, and with all his efforts made little way, so that speedily he was overtaken, and Jan ran the ferry-boat against the other, struck the oar out of the hands of the rower, and flung himself upon the man, and gripped him.
“Kate--hold the boats together.”