"I telt them afore what their damned smelting-house would do for me!" said the miller, striding about in his impotent rage.
Parson Christian was standing by the gate on the windward side of the mill-yard, with Laird Fisher beside him, looking on in silence at the leaping flames.
"The wind is from the south," he said, "and a spark of the hot refuse shot down the bank has been blown into the mill."
The mill was a wooden structure, and the fire held it like a serpent in its grip. People were coming and going from the darkness into the red glare, and out of the glare into the darkness. Among them was one stalwart figure that none noticed in the general confusion.
"Have you a tarpaulin?" said this man, addressing those about him.
"There's a big one on the stack at Coledale," answered another.
"Run for it!"
"It's of no use."
"Damme, run for it!"
The tone of authority was not to be ignored. In three minutes a huge tarpaulin was being dragged behind a dozen men.