Our orchard is a very nice place; generally the washing is hung there, but, of course, there isn’t any out on Sundays. So we collected a lot of twigs and things and piled them round a clothes-prop, and I stuck in all the burs to prick the martyr’s feet. Then I poured paraffin over it all. I forgot to say that I had brought the can up out of the scullery. When it was all ready I tied Humphrey to the post with some of the clothes-line. He looked lovely, he really did, just like Latimer-Ridley-and-Hooper. I took off the sailor hat and told him to shut his eyes and say his prayers, while I hit him with things--not hard, of course, that would be horribly mean when he was all tied up, but just pretence. And I kept asking him if he would abjure his faith, because I was Bloody Mary, but he wouldn’t, and then I hit him again. Only in the middle he sneezed and I had to get out his pocket-handkerchief, which spoilt it rather. I don’t know what Latimer-Ridley-and-Hooper did if he wanted to blow his nose. Well, after some time Humphrey said that he was uncomfortable and must be burnt quick. So I asked him once more if he’d abjure, and then I said in awful tones, “Minion, fire the faggots.” Of course, I had to be the minion myself, because Humphrey’s hands were tied. We’d brought up a box of matches and I struck one; and now comes the dreadful part. I don’t know how it happened, for I threw the match down quite a long way off; it must have been the paraffin or something, for suddenly the flame ran along the grass and it all began really to blaze. For the first second we were both so frightened, we didn’t do anything; then Humphrey screamed. I rushed forward and tried to pull him out, but I couldn’t, and I tried to push away the twigs and things, but they only seemed to burn more than ever. All this time I was screaming too in the most curious way and shaking all over though it was so hot. I was just going to run and fetch Mother, because I’d forgotten she was out to lunch, when suddenly the clothes-prop came out of the ground, and Humphrey stumbled forward. When he’d got out of the fire he fell down on his face and wouldn’t speak, so I was more frightened than ever. They carried Humphrey down to the house, for, of course, I went and fetched Fräulein. He wasn’t crying, he was quite still, which seemed worse. I wanted to go for the doctor, but Fräulein told me I’d done quite enough harm and I’d better keep out of the way. So I went up to the box-room and cried. My only comfort was that my hands were hurting a lot, because they were burnt too, though I hadn’t felt it before. Still I couldn’t pretend to be Casabianca like Humphrey might have, I could only think I was a murderer and going to be hanged, and there wasn’t much comfort even in that.