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. "Nine o'clock," said Parson Christian, turning his face toward home. "Sharp work, while it lasted, my lads!" Then there was the sound of wheels, and Natt drove his trap to the gate of the mill-yard. "You've just missed it, Natt," said John Proudfoot; "where have you been?" "Driving the master to the train." Hugh Ritson was standing by. Every one glanced from him to Natt. "The train?--master? What do you mean? Who?" "Who? Why, Master Paul," said Natt, with a curl of the lip. "I reckon it could scarce be Master Hugh." "When? What train?" said Parson Christian. "The eight o'clock to London." "Eight o'clock? London?" "Don't I speak plain?" "And has he gone?" "I's warrant he's gone." Consternation sat on every face but Natt's. CHAPTER VI. Next day was Sunday, and after morning service a group of men gathered about the church porch to discuss the events of the night before. In the evening the parlor of the Flying Horse was full of dalespeople, and many a sapient theory was then and there put forth to account for the extraordinary coincidence of the presence of Paul Ritson at the fire and his alleged departure by the London train. Hugh Ritson was not seen abroad that day. But early on Monday morning he hastened to the stable, called on Natt to saddle a horse, sprung on its back and galloped away toward the town. The morning was bitterly cold, and the rider was buttoned up to the throat. The air was damp; a dense veil of vapor lay on the valley and hid half the fells; the wintery dawn, with its sunless sky, had not the strength to rend it asunder; the wind had veered to the north, and was now dank and icy. A snow-storm was coming. The face of Hugh Ritson was wan and jaded. He leaned heavily forward in the saddle; the biting wind was in his eyes; he had a fixed look, and seemed not to see the people whom he passed on the road.