o the north, and it was still
moving northward as it also advanced more slowly to the top of the
hill where he stood.

Well, the road was still behind him. Nothing worse had happened than
he had, in reason, anticipated. He must go back. He turned the horse
and looked.

Across the ridge of the last hill that he had passed the fire was
marching majestically. The daylight, such as it had been, had given
its place to the great glow of the fire. Ten minutes ago he could not
have distinguished anything back there. Now he could see the road
clearly marked, nearly five miles away, and across it stood a solid
wall of fire.

There were no moments to be lost. He was cut off on three sides. The
way out lay to the north, over he knew not what sort of country. But
at least it was a way out. He must not altogether run away from the
fire, for in that way he might easily be caught and hemmed in
entirely. He must ride along as near as he could in front of it. So,
if he were fast enough, he might turn the edge of it and be safe
again. He might even be able to go on his way again to French
Village.

Yes, if he were quick enough. Also, if the fire played no new trick
upon him.

His horse turned willingly from the road and ran along under the
shelter of the ridge of the hill for a full mile as fast as the Bishop
dared let him go. He could not drive. He was obliged to trust the
horse to pick his own footing. It was mad riding over rough pasture
land and brush, but it was better to let the horse have his own way.

Suddenly they came to the end of the ridge where the Bishop might have
expected to be able to go around the edge of the fire. The horse stood
stock still. The Bishop took one quiet, comprehensive look.

"I am sorry, boy," he said gently to the horse. "You have done your
best. And I--have done my worst. You did not deserve this."

He was looking down toward Wilbur's Fork, a dry water course, two
miles away and a thousand feet below.

The fire had come clear around the hill and had been driven down into
the heavy timber along the water course. There it was raging away to
the west down through the great trees, travelling faster than any
horse could have been driven.

The Bishop looked again. Then he turned in his saddle, thinking
mechanically. To the east the fire was coming over the ridge in an
unbroken line--death. From the south it was advancing slowly but with
a calm and certain steadiness of purpose--death. On the hil