ing the night with the clashing of falling branches, and the spitting of little springs, and the howl of the tall boles as they pitched downhill where the flames rioted. Flakes of fire blew up, settling softly in the darkness about the boys, and searing out the beauty of fern and creeper before they died.
A smother of smoke came on a sudden; black, choking and acrid. Murray buttoned his coat and turned his collar up.
“I’m only taking volunteers,” he said, “for we’ll have to run for it. Who is coming?”
Tod was fighting the blackness that stank of burning leaves and rottenness.
“Whisht, then!” he shouted. “Wud ye have us ahl tu Purgatory befure our toime, Murray? There’s a way back, yet, glory be!”
“And there’s Roddy ahead with a loaded rifle,” said Murray. “Are you going to let him get to Mains first? He’s taking death for someone with him, by all accounts.”
He tucked in his elbows, put his head down, and disappeared in the smoke. Ormond ran with him, step for step. Since the night in Pipi’s hut, Roddy had been rather dear to Murray, and Ormond knew it, fearing what might be when Murray faced the boy next.
“He—may not do any harm, Murray,” he gasped.
“But he will,” said Murray. “You know it—unless we’re there first. And I’d give ten
