As our den contained a fireplace of its own, and as the weather was chilly, for it was just after the Christmas holidays,—Percy’s second Christmas at the school,—it naturally occurred to us that we ought to have a supply of fire-wood. But fire-wood is a scarce article in England, and we were obliged to search the hedge-rows and spinneys for a long distance around for dead sticks ere we could collect a sufficient supply. With infinite labour we succeeded in getting together about a cart-load, which we hoisted in small bundles up the chimney and carried to the den; and then, of course, we must straightway light a fire to test the drawing qualities of our fireplace.
We had been standing by the fire, warming ourselves, for a quarter of an hour, or so, when Percy, happening to look out of the window, exclaimed:
“Why! What is the matter down in the village? The whole population seems to be coming up here.”
“It’s the smoke!” I cried. “It’s the smoke pouring out of the top of the Keep. They are coming up to see what is the cause of it. We must hurry out and pull up our ropes; they might find them.”
Back we went in great haste; detached the ropes and pulled them up; drew the ivy over the iron bar, and scrambled down the wall. Then, Percy taking one of the ropes and I the other, we wound them round and round our bodies and buttoned our coats over them. They made us look absurdly fat, but that could not be helped. Then we ran round the bottom of the hill and joined the procession of villagers from behind.
It was not surprising that their attention had been attracted. We had built a roaring fire in the hope of taking the chill out of the walls of the den, and some of the wood being rather damp, an immense volume of smoke was rolling away from the summit of the old tower.
The men and boys, including Percy and myself, at once dispersed all over the castle in search of the fire; every spot, likely or unlikely, was inspected, without result, and presently everybody congregated again at the base of the Keep, whence the mysterious smoke was still pouring in clouds, to discuss the meaning of this wonderful phenomenon. Percy and I were in perfect ecstasies of delight as we listened to the varied opinions of the astonished villagers; it was with the greatest difficulty we could restrain our laughter.
“Do’ee know what ’tis makes thicky smo-ak?” said one old fellow in a smock-frock. “’Tis my opinion it be gho-asts.”
“Or witches,” added another, turning pale at his own idea.
Everybody shook his head and looked serious; for the farm-labourer of the south of England firmly believed in witches at that time—and probably he does so still, for he is of a slow-moving race.