and it struck me
that if I could dig up enough of the earthen floor or topple over the
mound of earth which had been piled up at the making of the underground
passage, the fire must go out for lack of air; or, better still, would
be turned in the faces of those who were digging away the barrels and
boxes from the bottom of the stair-well.

This, after many attempts and some very painful burns, I succeeded in
doing. The first shovelfuls did not seem to produce much effect. So I
set to work on the large heap of hardened earth in the corner, and was
lucky enough to be able to tumble it bodily upon the top of the column
of fire. Then suddenly the terrible column of blue flame went out, just
as does a Christmas pudding when it is blown upon. And for the same
reason. Both were made of the flames of the French spirit called cognac,
or brandy.

Then I did not mind about my burns, I can assure you. But almost
gleefully I went on heaping mould and dirt upon the boxes in the well of
the staircase, stamping down the earth at the top till it was almost
like the hard-beaten floor of the cellar itself. I left not a crevice
for the least small flame to come up through.

Then I bethought me of what might be going on above, and the flush of my
triumph cooled quickly. For I thought that there was only Agnes Anne,
and who knows what weakness she may not have committed. She would never
have thought, for instance, of such a thing as covering in the flame
with earth to put it out. To tell the truth, I did think very
masterfully of myself at that moment, and perhaps with some cause, for
not one in a thousand would have had the "engine" to do as I had done.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I heard cries from without, which
had been smothered by the deepness of the dungeon in which I had been
labouring to put out the fire. For a moment I thought that by the
failure of Agnes Anne to fire off "King George" at the proper moment,
the door had been forced and we utterly lost. Which seemed the harder to
be borne, that I had just saved all our lives in a way so original and
happy.

But I was wrong. The shouting came not from the wicked crew of the
privateersman, but from the shouting of a vast number of people, most of
them mounted on farm and country horses, with some of finer limb and
better blood, managed by young fellows having the air of laird's sons or
others of some position. None of these had his face bare. But in place
of the black