They had unlit torches with them, brought to light their way about the cellars and store-rooms when they should enter the house. Alcide lighted one, and standing where Cyrille could not see him, hurled its blazing mass on to the piled brushwood, and three other men did the same. But the torches fell short and dropped on the marble pavement before the door; as they flared there harmlessly their red glare glowed on the black figures of the woodlanders, which looked like the forms of demons as they danced and yelled with rage and thirst for blood, hidden by the darkness of the night, save where the fitful glimmer of the torches touched them. Owing to the narrowness of the slit through which he fired, Cyrille could only aim at those immediately before the door or on the grass in front of him. The peasants could, without going far, keep out of range, and from their station beyond the balustrade they flung two other torches; these fell full on the piled heather, which caught alight, and sent a rolling, stifling cloud of smoke up through the grating. As they saw the success of their effort they lost caution, they shouted with rapture, and crowded nearer to enjoy the sport; the fire ran from heather to bramble and branch; the cones caught alight with jets of flame; the dry faggots cracked and flared, the volumes of smoke rolled up to the sculptured arms and crown about the doorways. “Their blood be on their own heads,” said Cyrille, and he fired--once, twice, thrice. Each time a man fell. But Alcide still kept out of range. The fire was fierce, and its red waves licked hungrily the old oak and iron which opposed their entrance. Resistance could be but a question of time. “If I could believe they would keep faith with me, I would let them torture me to death, to save the house and the woman. But they do not know what faith means. Were I once dead, they would sack the place from loggia to cellar, and get drunk on wine and blood.” Suddenly there came to his ears a sound of galloping horses. The sound came from the long avenue in front of the house to the north. The men did not heed it; they were leaping and shouting and bellowing with triumph as the fire waxed higher and fiercer, and the smoke ran up amongst the bronze scroll-work of the balconies above. He could now see nothing, for the burning wood hid all save itself, but he could hear, and the gallop of the horses grew nearer, and there blent with it the jingling of chains and of scabbards, and a shrill yell of terror rose from the grassland beyond the balustrade. “The saints be praised!” cried Caterina, and she fell on her knees and burst into tears. “’Tis the carabineers of Ronciglione!” Cyrille went to a side door which the fire had not reached, unfastened its bolts and bars, and went out on to the grass.