Smoke curled from the muzzle of Surgeon Stott's empty pistol, and his mouth emptied itself of sundry emphatic curses. He shouted at Tom Stook, who was standing and staring across the meadow.
"Run, man, run! Rouse Mr. Winter."
But Jeremy had been roused a minute ago by the sentinel in the orchard, who had bent over him where he lay asleep under an apple-tree and pulled him by the arm.
"Mr. Winter, sir, Mr. Winter, the house be a' fire."
Jeremy had sprung up, to find the man pointing at the attic story of the Brick House.
The place was black under the moon, but at one gable end an attic window showed the red glow of fire. The casement frames were clearly outlined; from the open lattice came little swirls of smoke, and for a moment a black shape showed within like a man tossing his arms in despair.
Jeremy's heart leapt in him.
"Good God!"
He ran round rousing his men, calling in particular for John Jenner the Rookhurst blacksmith. They began their rush toward the house just after Stott's pistol shot barked out a grim warning. Stott, Jeremy, and their men met in the front garden, holding back for the moment as though not knowing whether they were facing enemies or friends.
"Stott?"
"It is Stott, sir. They have broken through, curse 'em."
"And the house is on fire. The devil has left Jasper to burn in his attic——"
"By George! And they have got the girl."
"We'll catch and butcher the lot of them. Jenner, Jack Jenner, have you got your tools?"
"Sure, Mr. Winter, sure."
Then things happened as De Rothan had counted on their happening. Jeremy, Stott, Steyning, and young Parsloe stormed into the house, Jeremy carrying a lantern that one of the men had brought lit from the orchard. They made no tarrying in the hall, but rushed for the stairs, Jeremy carrying visions of Jasper tied up in a burning room.
Half way up the stairs a figure came blundering down on them. It was Anthony Durrell, half dressed, and bewildered.
Jeremy held his hand.
"George, sir—I had nearly fired into you. Which is Benham's room? Do you know?"
Durrell was inarticulate.
"Mr. Winter, sir! I—I have not——"
Jeremy swore, thrust him aside, and rushed on, the rest following, leaving Durrell flattened against the wall.
The smell of the fire guided them, the pungent scent of burning wood. The stairs leading to the attic story were narrow and tortuous like the stairs in an old tower. Jeremy was the first to get a glimpse of the yellow light streaming under an attic door. The crackle of burning wood could be heard. Little puffs of smoke were drifting into the passage.
Jeremy rushed to the door of the burning room and found it locked. He charged at it with his shoulder, but it did not budge.
"Jack Jenner—at this door, man. Jasper, lad—Jasper——"
Suddenly those who were in the gallery stood listening, and looking into each other's eyes. The smith was caught in the act of raising a heavy hammer. Stott had his hand on Jeremy's shoulder.
"Hallo, Jeremy, hallo——"
It was like a ghost voice coming, not from the burning room, but down the long gallery with its dormer windows and its sloping eaves. Some of the men on the stairs looked scared, and waited to see what Jeremy would do.
"Jasper—hallo——"
"Hallo—hallo."
Jeremy gave a shout and went running down the gallery. This devil's trick of De Rothan's was not so brutal as it had seemed. It had been a ruse to trick them and to gain time, but it was a ruse that touched more than the edge of murder.
"Jasper, lad, where are you?"
"In here; the end room."
The door was locked, and Jeremy made way for Jenner the smith. The man took a run, lifted one leg, and set the sole of a heavy boot over the place where the lock should be. The door flew in as though it had been unfastened and had been caught by a gust of wind.
Jeremy's lantern showed Jasper on his straw.
Winter was on his knees, one arm over Jasper's shoulders, and shouting to the smith to get to work.
"We thought the scoundrel had roasted you, lad, for the house is on fire. Knock these bolts out of the floor, Jenner, knock 'em out—by glory. We have half our night's work to do yet."
The smith was hammering at the bolts that held the rings in the floor boards. Surgeon Stott had shut the door and was standing with his back to it. A man in Jasper Benham's condition does not yearn to be gaped at by grooms and ploughmen. In the gallery young Parsloe stood watching the door of the burning attic. He had a coil of rope over his arm so that they should have a means of escape if the fire broke through into the gallery before Jasper could be released.
"What has happened, Jeremy? Where's De Rothan?"
"Got away, lad; broken through our lines. We have been blockading the place."
"Nance——"
Jeremy's mouth hardened for action.
"That's it, lad, we have got to catch him and the girl before he gets afloat."
"She didn't go willingly, Jerry?"
"Tied up in a blanket, sir," said Stott from the door.
Jasper's impatience flared up like a fire.
"Jack Jenner, man, smash those infernal bolts out, can't you? Never mind me; I'm not afraid of a bruise or two."
"Sure, Master Benham, sure, it be t' oak as holds."
"Hit at 'em, man, hit at 'em. We can deal with the darbies afterward."
The smith managed to smash the bolts out of the oak, and Jasper was free. He tried to stand, but found himself lurching against Jeremy, weak in the knees and giddy. Jenner the smith was a man of tact. He stooped, and made "a broad back" to carry Jasper below.
"Climb up, Mr. Benham, sir."
Stott went out to clear the men down the stairs, and Jeremy hoisted Jasper on to Jack Jenner's back.
They were none too soon. The door of the attic was gaping and falling apart, and yellow flames were licking the charred wood. The gallery was full of smoke that turned to silver where the moonlight touched it. Jack Jenner, blinking his eyes, swung along like a stolid elephant, with Jasper on his back.
So they made their way out of the house and came out into the garden where Anthony Durrell was pacing up and down with long, jerky strides. He ran at Jeremy, waving his arms, and crying out like a man who had been wounded.
"Nance—my daughter. Mr. Winter, sir, I implore you——"
Jeremy soothed him.
"That's just our business, Mr. Durrell; don't waste time, sir, by shouting at the moon."
He turned to the men.
"Run, you beggars; bring the horses round from the orchard. And Tom, my man, bring my sword. It stands against the apple-tree where I was dozing. It's tally-ho, and a moonlit gallop."
Jasper was sitting on the grass with the smith at work upon the leg irons and handcuffs.
"There is a horse for me, Jeremy?"
"Do you think you are fit to ride?"
"Do you think I am going to stay behind?"
"You can't sit a horse after three weeks in irons."
"I can ride Devil Dick.".
"He's with us."
"Then I go on Devil Dick's back."
"We shall have to tie you on."
"Tie me on! Be dashed to you!"
The smith had broken the catches of the handcuffs, and Jasper's arms were free. The leg irons were a stiffer proposition.
"Leave the anklets on, Jack, and get the bar away."
"It be easier to knock off t' anklets, sir."
"Get along, then, for God's sake."
Jeremy stood and watched.
"You had better let us get along, lad," he said, gently, "time is precious."
"But, Jeremy, I've been waiting for this chance——"
"It'll be away over the water if we don't hurry. Besides, lad, you are not fit to fight it out with De Rothan."
"Look here, Jerry. I must have a shot or a thrust at him."
"And does somebody want to weep over a corpse? Be reasonable, lad. Leave the Frenchman to me."
Jasper looked savage and dejected.
"Oh, call me a baby, Jeremy, and have done with it."
"Now, lad, now, do you think the old devil don't love you? Why, I'd put a pistol into Squire Kit's fist and tell him to shoot me if I were to let you run yourself to-night on that scoundrel's sword. The spirit is willing, sir, but the flesh is weak. Hallo—here come the horses."
Jack Jenner sat back on his heels with a grunt of satisfaction.
"That be one of t' quickest jobs, Mr. Benham, sir——"
Jasper was up on the instant.
"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?"
"Pett Level. We happen to have got the other side of De Rothan's game, and bought his own man over his head."
"There'll be a boat waiting."
"There'll be no boat, or I'm a blockhead."
Jeremy gave a queer, hard laugh.
"Now, then, put 'em at it, boys. Tally-ho, tally-ho. I'm for the brush of the French fox."
And they went galloping through the moonlight.