There was only another mile of road to cover before they rounded the Church Hill and the village lay beneath them. Then they would know the worst that was to be known.
The smell of burning grew stronger. The road seemed interminable. The fat pony, overfed and scant of breath, resented this sudden outburst of activity on the part of his mistress. He slackened his pace.
Mary rose from her seat and cut him sharply several times with the whip. It was the surprise of his life. He stopped dead, then started forward and galloped full into the teeth of the gale.
The dark trees and hedges streamed past them as they mounted the rise to the Church Hill, John crouching still and silent, Mary half standing and urging the pony forward with whip and rein.
From the top of the hill they looked down. Below in the village was a glare of red that threw the fantastic outline of roofs and chimneys into black relief, and rose into smoke hiding the outline of the wold and merging into the evening sky.
The fire looked a little too far to the right. For a wild moment of hope Mary thought the cyclist might have been mistaken. As the cart descended the hill she called to a passer-by:
"Where's the fire?"
"Robsons'—stackyard and farm buildings."
They rattled on. The village street was astir with clamorous commotion. Everyone in Anderby seemed to be out of doors; skurrying black figures moved to and fro in the flickering red light.
Mary drew up outside the stackyard gate and let the reins fall on the pony's heaving flanks. Before her, above a jagged bar of wall, rose the flames from twenty-four stacks merrily blazing. A southwesterly wind swept them towards the farm buildings. The thatch along the covered side of the fold-yard was already alight.