Jasper's impatience flared up like a fire.
"Jack Jenner, man, smash those infernal bolts out, can't you? Never mind me; I'm not afraid of a bruise or two."
"Sure, Master Benham, sure, it be t' oak as holds."
"Hit at 'em, man, hit at 'em. We can deal with the darbies afterward."
The smith managed to smash the bolts out of the oak, and Jasper was free. He tried to stand, but found himself lurching against Jeremy, weak in the knees and giddy. Jenner the smith was a man of tact. He stooped, and made "a broad back" to carry Jasper below.
"Climb up, Mr. Benham, sir."
Stott went out to clear the men down the stairs, and Jeremy hoisted Jasper on to Jack Jenner's back.
They were none too soon. The door of the attic was gaping and falling apart, and yellow flames were licking the charred wood. The gallery was full of smoke that turned to silver where the moonlight touched it. Jack Jenner, blinking his eyes, swung along like a stolid elephant, with Jasper on his back.
So they made their way out of the house and came out into the garden where Anthony Durrell was pacing up and down with long, jerky strides. He ran at Jeremy, waving his arms, and crying out like a man who had been wounded.
"Nance—my daughter. Mr. Winter, sir, I implore you——"