Sibbold rushed round the house, opened the door gently, locked it behind him, and stole upstairs. On the landing he met his youngest son James. For a moment they looked at one another. The young man spoke first. “Quick, and load your gun,” he said. “Then put it in the rack and get into bed. Give me your breeches.” They wore breeches and gaiters in those days. The old man did as he was bid. The gun was put in the rack; old Sibbold got into bed. James took his breeches, poured a bucket of water on them, and hung them up in the wide chimney—the embers still glowed on the hearth. Then he stole upstairs. “Arthur is out,” he whispered, as he passed the old man’s bedroom. Ten minutes passed. Then there arose clatter of feet and a shouting. “Farmer! farmer! your house is a-fire. The thatch be caught alight.” James opened the window, yawned, and asked what was the matter. “Father’s asleep,” he said, as if not comprehending them. “He got wet in the brook, and went to bed early. Can’t ye come in the morning?” But the others soon roused the house. The thatch had indeed caught over the cellar window; but fortunately it was nearly covered with moss and weeds, and was easily put out. Then some one noticed the smashed window. “Who was it fired?” they asked. “We heard a shot, and thought it was the swampers. We were watching our sheep and barns. Then we saw this fire in your thatch, and ran. Who was it fired? How came the window smashed like this? How came the thatch alight?” James answered, “He really did not know. He had heard no shot, he slept sound, knew nothing of the thatch being on fire, and they would have been burnt in their beds if it had not been for their kind neighbours.” Old Sibbold stood and shivered in his shirt, his breeches were wet. The neighbours came in. “I’ll go upstairs and fetch father a blanket to wrap his knees in,” said James. “Father, thee blow the embers up; John Andrews, thee knows where the cellar is: give ’em the key, father, and do you go, John, and draw some cider.” Away went John Andrews with the lantern, and came back with a face white as a sheet, just as James got downstairs. There was a dead man in the cellar, in a flood of gore and cider! The result was a coroner’s inquiry; the thefts and so forth might have gone on for ever, but death could not be disregarded. Even in that lawless age, death was attended to. An inquest was held, and the jury was composed of the farmers of the village. Suspicion fell very strongly upon old Sibbold. The Swamp people openly denounced him as the murderer. His neighbours, much as they hated the Swamp, believed in their hearts that they were right; and not all their class prejudice could overcome the innate horror they felt in his presence. More than one had heard him say he would have blood. Now there was blood enough.