“We’ll pull ye,” he cried. “Whisht, then, bhoy—git a howld of him, Steve!”
He wrenched the shoulders, and Lou struck at him, cursing:
“Don’t, you———! Let me alone! Ah-h!”
The sweat ran down his face, and Steve repeated, in a daze:
“Tell us what ter do. The fire’s comin’.”
The fire was on them; mocking, leaping, flinging cords of burning vine; and its shouting filled the night. Lou gripped Tod’s sleeve.
“Have you got a knife?” he said. “Or a bit of cord? Put an end to me somehow! Don’t leave me to be roasted alive!”
Tod shuddered down on the ground, stuttering.
“Ochone! Mary be good to us! Say yer prayers, then, Lou, for it’s the hand of God howldin’ ye, an’ no other.”
“Stop that blasted rot,” said Lou, fiercely, “Haven’t you got anything? Steve———”
His blue eyes were hard and bright and his voice grated. Under the smoke that all but smothered. Tod crept away, crazy with horror, and muttering prayers without end or beginning. Steve crushed out some burning leaves with his arm, and stooped lower.
“If I cud do anything—Lou; because as Maiden loved yer———”
Then Lou cursed him, in a fury of passion and pain. But there was no fear.
