"God bless you, Jack Jenner. Jeremy, I say, Jeremy——"
"Well, lad?"
"I say, my confounded head's like a churn, going round and round. Have you got a flask on you?"
"Here, Stott, you're the man. Give the lad a dose of schnapps."
The horses were ready in the meadow, and the men ready to mount. Stott had brought out a flask from his tail pocket, and also a thick sandwich of bread and beef.
"I'm an old campaigner, Mr. Benham; set your teeth into that, man, as we go along."
In another minute they were in the saddle and riding across the meadow. Several of the men had to be left behind, but counting Steyning and young Parsloe they mustered nine riders. Each man had a brace of pistols and a hanger, while Jeremy had his long sword. He meant it to be of use that night in dealing with De Rothan.
As they paused at the gate leading to the lane, a sudden glare of light made them look back toward the house. The flames had broken through the roof, and one long tongue was waving high in the air like a great wavering sword.
The light lit up grim faces and eager eyes.
"Which way, Jeremy?"