him or the furze pricked his legs, as he was subconsciously aware without really noticing it.  Once he came vaulting over a granite wall, to find himself almost on top of a blood-bull, with a ring in his nose and a curly fringe on his forehead that showed clearly in the rising moonlight.  Ishmael could see, too, his wet glistening nose and dark eyes.  The bull stayed still staring in astonishment, and Ishmael hit his flank gaily in passing and ran on, down a marshy bottom, over another wall and up the next slope.  The glow was brighter now because he was so much nearer, but in reality it had subsided somewhat—­its first fierce spurt had burnt itself out.  Ishmael began to go less easily—­his breath rasped a little; but his sensations were all pleasant—­the pounding blood in his whole body ran sweetly, he tingled with a glow that was enjoyable beyond anything he could have imagined.  He knew he must be in a deplorable condition; he could feel the sweat running down his forehead into his eyes and his shirt clinging to his body under his light coat.  Up to the knees he was soaking wet, and splashed with mud higher still; his clothes were torn by the brambles, and so were his hands and face.  He felt happy—­happy, in spite of the news that had come to him.  At that moment his run seemed to him to hold an epic quality—­the physical aspect of things; the health and strength he felt coursing through him, the delightful exhaustion that he knew would follow so healthily and naturally, seemed the most important things in the world.  Let all else go but this....

He slowed up to a walk as he came to Angwin’s farm, passed through the dark yard, and through the gates into a field next the rickyard.  It was full of folk crowded in from all the countryside.  The engine from Penzance had come and was puffing and panting by the pond, sucking up water with stertorous breaths; at every gasp it rocked with its own intensity upon its wheels as it stood, sending out a pulsing shower of sparks over the muddy water.

Seven ricks had blazed that night, and still smouldered sullenly.  The great grey hose played upon them; the water hissing upon the hot straw and hay, sending up clouds of steam, tinged to a fiery pallor against the moonlit night.  The walls, not only of the rickyard, but of the surrounding fields were warm to the touch, for the dry furze growing along them had caught fire from the blowing sparks, so that at one time the fields had been outlined with fire.  Now the furze had smouldered and died, but the smooth granite slabs were still hot to the hand, an unnatural warmth that seemed malign in those dewy fields.

Now the ricks burnt less and less fiercely; Ishmael gave a hand with the other helpers, but there was really nothing to be done.  Luckily, as it was still warm weather, the livestock had all been out in the fields, so there had been no panic even when one end of the cowshed caught fire.  That had been put out and the walls of the barns and out-buildings drenched again and again, and everyone was trying to comfort Johnny Angwin with pointing out how much worse it might have been.