"Lay hold of the ropes and let us dip it into the river," shouted the same voice above the prevailing clangor. It was done. Dripping wet, the tarpaulin was pulled into the mill-yard.
"Where's your ladder? Quick!"
The ladder was raised against the scorching wooden walls.
"Be ready to throw me the ropes," shouted the deep voice.
A firm step was set on the lowest rung. There was a crackle of glass, and then a cloud of smoke streamed out of a broken window. For an instant the bright glare was obscured. But it burst forth afresh, and leaped with great white tongues into the sky.
"The sheets are caught!" shouted the miller.
They were flying around with the wind. A line of flame seemed to be pursuing them.
"Who's the man on the ladder—dusta know?" cried John Proudfoot.
"I dunnot," answered the miller.
At that instant Hugh Ritson came up. The smoke was gone, and now a dark figure could be dimly seen high up on the mill-side. He seized the cross-trees with both hands and swung himself on to the raking roof.