im.

"There's a big one on the stack at Coledale," answered another.

"Run for it!"

"It's of no use."

"Damme, run for it!"

The tone of authority was not to be ignored. In three minutes a huge
tarpaulin was being dragged behind a dozen men.

"Lay hold of the ropes and let us dip it into the river," shouted the
same voice above the prevailing clangor. It was done. Dripping wet, the
tarpaulin was pulled into the mill-yard.

"Where's your ladder? Quick!"

The ladder was raised against the scorching wooden walls.

"Be ready to throw me the ropes," shouted the deep voice.

A firm step was set on the lowest rung. There was a crackle of glass,
and then a cloud of smoke streamed out of a broken window. For an
instant the bright glare was obscured. But it burst forth afresh, and
leaped with great white tongues into the sky.

"The sheets are caught!" shouted the miller.

They were flying around with the wind. A line of flame seemed to be
pursuing them.

"Who's the man on the ladder--dusta know?" cried John Proudfoot.

"I dunnot," answered the miller.

At that instant Hugh Ritson came up. The smoke was gone, and now a dark
figure could be dimly seen high up on the mill-side. He seized the
cross-trees with both hands and swung himself on to the raking roof.

"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.

None knew. When the flames began to fade he was missed. He had
gone--none knew where.