"Now for the ropes!" he shouted.
The flames burst out again and illumined the whole sky; the dark mass of the fells could be seen far overhead, and the waters of the river in the bed of the valley glowed like amber. The stalwart figure stood out in the white light against the red glare, holding on to the cross-trees on the top of the mill, and with a wheel of crackling fire careering beside him.
There could be no doubt of his identity, with the light on his strong face and tawny hair.
"It's Paul Ritson!" shouted many a voice.
"Damme, the ropes—quick!"
The ropes were thrown and caught, and thrown again to the other side. Then the dripping tarpaulin was drawn over the mill until it covered the top and half the sides. The wheel burned out, and the iron axle came to the ground with a plunge.
The fire was conquered; the night sky grew black; the night wind became voiceless. Then the busy throng had time for talk.
"Where's Paul?" asked Parson Christian.
"Ay, where is he?" said the miller.
"He's a stunner, for sure—where is he?" said the blacksmith.