"Dat's what I tells 'em, sah."
"Of course," said Ben, good-humouredly. "The voice of the people is the voice of God—rats or no rats—if you know how to count."
As old Aleck staggered away, the sudden crash of a volley of musketry echoed in the distance.
"What's that?" asked Ben, listening intently. The sound was unmistakable to a soldier's ear—that volley from a hundred rifles at a single word of command. It was followed by a shot on a hill in the distance, and then by a faint echo, farther still. Ben listened a few moments and turned into the lawn of the hotel. The music suddenly stopped, the tramp of feet echoed on the porch, a woman screamed, and from the rear of the house came the cry:
"Fire! Fire!"
Almost at the same moment an immense sheet of flame shot skyward from the big barn.
"My God!" groaned Ben. "Jake's in jail, to-night, and they've set the barn on fire. It's worth more than the house."
The crowd rushed down the hill to the blazing building, Marion's fleet figure in its flying white dress leading the crowd.
The lowing of the cows and the wild neighing of the horses rang above the roar of the flames.
Before Ben could reach the spot Marion had opened every stall. Two cows leaped out to safety, but not a horse would move from its stall, and each moment wilder and more pitiful grew their death-cries.
