“Only the wind,” said the turf-cutter.

“I don’t think Fifth-of-Novembers ought to be kept up by night except in towns.  It should be by day in outstep, ill-accounted places like this!”

“Nonsense, Christian.  Lift up your spirits like a man!  Susy, dear, you and I will have a jig—­hey, my honey?—­before ’tis quite too dark to see how well-favoured you be still, though so many summers have passed since your husband, a son of a witch, snapped you up from me.”

This was addressed to Susan Nunsuch; and the next circumstance of which the beholders were conscious was a vision of the matron’s broad form whisking off towards the space whereon the fire had been kindled.  She was lifted bodily by Mr. Fairway’s arm, which had been flung round her waist before she had become aware of his intention.  The site of the fire was now merely a circle of ashes flecked with red embers and sparks, the furze having burnt completely away.  Once within the circle he whirled her round and round in a dance.  She was a woman noisily constructed; in addition to her enclosing framework of whalebone and lath, she wore pattens summer and winter, in wet weather and in dry, to preserve her boots from wear; and when Fairway began to jump about with her, the clicking of the pattens, the creaking of the stays, and her screams of surprise, formed a very audible concert.

“I’ll crack thy numskull for thee, you mandy chap!” said Mrs. Nunsuch, as she helplessly danced round with him, her feet playing like drumsticks among the sparks.  “My ankles were all in a fever before, from walking through that prickly furze, and now you must make ’em worse with these vlankers!”

The vagary of Timothy Fairway was infectious.  The turf-cutter seized old Olly Dowden, and, somewhat more gently, poussetted with her likewise.  The young men were not slow to imitate the example of their elders, and seized the maids; Grandfer Cantle and his stick jigged in the form of a three-legged object among the rest; and in half a minute all that could be seen on Rainbarrow was a whirling of dark shapes amid a boiling confusion of sparks, which leapt around the dancers as high as their waists.  The chief noises were women’s shrill cries, men’s laughter, Susan’s stays and pattens, Olly Dowden’s “heu-heu-heu!” and the strumming of the wind upon the furze-bushes, which formed a kind of tune to the demoniac measure they trod.  Christian alone stood aloof, uneasily rocking himself as he murmured, “They ought not to do it—­how the vlankers do fly! ’tis tempting the Wicked one, ’tis.”

“What was that?” said one of the lads, stopping.

“Ah—­where?” said Christian, hastily closing up to the rest.

The dancers all lessened their speed.

“’Twas behind you, Christian, that I heard it—­down there.”

“Yes—­’tis behind me!” Christian said.  “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, bless the bed that I lie on; four angels guard—­”