"An' a good thing if't be the church," put in one of strong Puritan proclivities. "It want burnin' down, as every other, wi' their altars an' images. They be a curse to the country; the parsons too. They've taken sides wi' the stinkin' Cavaliers, agaynst Parliament and people, all along." "That's true," endorsed another of like iconoclastic sentiments; "an' if it a'nt the church as be givin' up that light, let's luminate it when we get there. I go for that." A proposal which called forth a chorus of assenting responses. While this play of words was in progress along the line of rank and file rearwards, the Colonel and Captain Trevor, at its head, were engaged in a dialogue of conjectures about the same--a brief one. "What think you it is?" asked Sir Richard, as they sat halted in their saddles regarding the garish light. "It looks to be over Ruardean, or near it." "A fire of some kind, Colonel. No common one either." "A farmer's rick?" "I fear not; would we were sure of its being only that!" "Ha! A house you think?" "I do, Sir Richard." "And--?" "The one we're making for!" "By Heavens! I believe it is. It bears that way to a point. Ruardean's more to the right. Yes, it must be Hollymead!" Both talked excitedly, but no more words passed between them there and then. The next heard was the command--"March--double quick!" and down the hill to Drybrook went they at a gallop over the tiny stream, and up the long winding slope round the shoulder of Ruardean Hill--without halt or draw on bridle. There only poising for an instant, as they came within view of the village and saw the conflagration was not in, but wide away from it; the glare and sparks ascending over the spot where Hollymead House should be, but was no more. As, continuing their gallop, they rode in through the park gates, it was to see a vast blazing pile, like a bonfire built by Titans--the fagots' great beams heaped together confusedly--from which issued a hissing and crackling, with at intervals loud explosions, as from an ordnance magazine on fire. CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE. VERY NEAR AN ENCOUNTER. Mitcheldean lies at the foot of the steep _facade_ already spoken of as forming a periphery to the elevated Forest district. The slope ascends direct from the western skirts of the little town; but outlying ridges also inclose it on the north, east, and south, so that even the tall spire of its church is invisible from any great distance. So situated, railways give it a wide berth; and few places better deserve the title "secluded." The only sort of traveller who ever thinks of paying it a visit is the "commercial," or some pedestrian tourist, crossing the Forest from the Severn side to view the more picturesque scenery of the Wye, with intention to make stoppage at the ancient hostelry of the Speech House, midway between.