MacIan, with singed hair, smoking garments, and smarting hands
and face, had already broken far enough through the first
barriers of burning timber to come within cry of the cells he had
once known. It was impossible, however, to see the spot where the
old man lay dead or alive; not now through darkness, but through
scorching and aching light. The site of the old half-wit's cell
was now the heart of a standing forest of fire--the flames as
thick and yellow as a cornfield. Their incessant shrieking and
crackling was like a mob shouting against an orator. Yet through
all that deafening density MacIan thought he heard a small and
separate sound. When he heard it he rushed forward as if to
plunge into that furnace, but Turnbull arrested him by an elbow.

"Let me go!" cried Evan, in agony; "it's the poor old beggar's
voice--he's still alive, and shouting for help."

"Listen!" said Turnbull, and lifted one finger from his clenched
hand.

"Or else he is shrieking with pain," protested MacIan. "I will
not endure it."

"Listen!" repeated Turnbull, grimly. "Did you ever hear anyone
shout for help or shriek with pain in that voice?"

The small shrill sounds which came through the crash of the
conflagration were indeed of an odd sort, and MacIan turned a
face of puzzled inquiry to his companion.

"He is singing," said Turnbull, simply.