Almost on the moment, a flame answered it from the point where the lighthouse stood; and, within ten minutes, the horizon of the towans was cressetted with these beacon-fires:  surely (thought Taffy) with many more than usual.  And he remembered that Jacky Pascoe had thrown out a hint of a great revival to be held on Baal-fire Night (as he called it).

The night was sultry and all but windless.  For once the tormented sands had rest.  The flame of the bonfires shone yellow—­ orange-yellow—­and steady.  He could see the dark figures of men and women, passing between him and the nearest, on the high wastrel in front of Tredinnis great gates.  Their voices reached him in a confused murmur, broken now and then by a child’s scream of delight.  And yet a hush seemed to hang over sea and land:  an expectant hush.  For weeks the sky had not rained.  Day after day, a dull indigo blue possessed it, deepening with night into duller purple, as if the whole heavens were gathering into one big thundercloud, which menaced but never broke.  And in the hush of those nights a listener could almost fancy he heard, between whiles, the rabbits stirring uneasily in their burrows.

By-and-by the bonfire on the wastrel appeared to be giving out sparks of light which blazed independently; yet without decreasing its own volume of flame.  The sparks came dancing, nearer and larger:  the voices grew more distinct.  The revellers had kindled torches and were advancing in procession to visit other bonfires.  The torches, too, were supposed to bless the fields they passed across.  Small blessing had they ever brought to the barren towans.

The procession rose and sank as it came over the uneven ridges like a fiery snake; topped the nearest ridge and came pouring down past the churchyard wall.  At its head danced Lizzie Pezzack, shrieking like a creature possessed, her hair loose and streaming while she whirled her torch.  Taffy knew these torches; bundles of canvas steeped in tar and fastened in the middle to a stout stick or piece of chain.  Lizzie’s was fastened to a chain; and as he watched her uplifted arm swinging the blazing mass he found time to wonder how she escaped setting her hair on fire.  Other torch-bearers tossed their arms and shouted as they passed.  The smoke was suffocating, and across the patch of quiet graveyard the heat smote on Taffy’s face.  But in the crowd he saw two figures clearly—­Jacky Pascoe and Squire Moyle; and the Bryanite’s face was agitated and white in the infernal glare.  He had given an arm to the Squire, who was clearly the centre of the procession and tottered forward with jaws working and cavernous eyes.

“He’s saved!” a voice shouted.

Others took up the cry.  “Saved!” “The Squire’s saved!” “Saved to-night—­saved to glory!”

The Squire paused, still leaning on the Bryanite’s arm.  While the procession swayed around him, he gazed across the gate as a man who had lost his bearings.  No glint of torchlight reached his cavernous eyes; but the sight of Mr. Raymond’s surpliced figure standing behind Taff’s shoulder in the full glare seemed to rouse him.  He lifted a fist and shook it slowly.