A name was carried from mouth to mouth, then shouted aloud, then greeted with a little cheer.  It fell upon Mr. Blee’s ear as he prepared to start homewards; and scarcely had the sound of it set him gasping when a big man grew out of the flame and shadow and stood before him with extended hand.

“Burnish it all!  You!  Be it Blanchard or the ghost of un?”

“The man hisself—­so big as bull’s beef, an’ so free as thicky fire!” said Will.

Riotous joy sprang and bubbled in his voice.  He gripped Billy’s hand till the old man jumped and wriggled.

“Free!  Gude God!  Doan’t tell me you’ve brawke loose—­doan’t ’e say that!  Christ! if you haven’t squashed my hand till theer’s no feeling in it!  Doan’t ’e say you’ve runned away?”

“No such thing,” answered Will, now the centre of a little crowd.  “I’ll tell ’e, sawls all, if you mind to hear.  ’Tis this way:  Queen Victoria, as have given of the best she’ve got wi’ both hands to the high men of the land, so they tell me, caan’t forget nought, even at such a time as this here.  She’ve made gert additions to all manner o’ men; an’ to me, an’ the likes o’ me she’ve given what’s more precious than bein’ lords or dukes.  I’m free—­me an’ all as runned from the ranks.  The Sovereign Queen’s let deserters go free, if you can credit it; an’ that’s how I stand here this minute.”

A buzz and hum with cheers and some laughter and congratulations followed Will’s announcement.  Then the people scattered to spread his story, and Mr. Blee spoke.

“Come you down home to wance.  Ban’t none up here as cares a rush ’bout ’e but me.  But theer ’s a many anxious folks below.  I comed up for auld sake’s sake an’ because ban’t in reason to suppose I’ll ever see another joy fire ‘pon Yes Tor rock, at my time o’ life.  But us’ll go an’ carry this rare news to Chagford an’ the Barton.”

They faded from the red radius of the fire and left it slowly dying.  Will helped Billy off rough ground to the road.  Then he set off at a speed altogether beyond the old man’s power, so Mr. Blee resorted to stratagem.

“’Bate your pace; ‘bate your pace; I caan’t travel that gait an’ talk same time.  Yet theer’s a power o’ fine things I might tell ’e if you’d listen.”

“‘T is hard to walk slow towards a mother an’ wife like what mine be, after near a month from ’em; but let’s have your news, Billy, an’ doan’t croak, for God’s sake.  Say all’s well wi’ all.”

“I ban’t no croaker, as you knaws.  Happy, are ’e?—­happy for wance?  I suppose you’ll say now, as you’ve said plenty times a’ready, that you ’m to the tail of your troubles for gude an’ all—­just in your auld, silly fashion?”

“Not me, auld chap, never no more—­so long as you ’m alive!  Ha, ha, ha—­that’s wan for you!  Theer! if ’t isn’t gude to laugh again!”

“I be main glad as I’ve got no news to make ’e do anything else, though ban’t often us can be prophets of gude nowadays.  But if you’ve grawed a streak wiser of late, then theer’s hope, even for a scatterbrain like you, the Lard bein’ all-powerful.  Not that jokes against such as me would please Him the better.”