Brenda Macrae approached the sacred pile, and, tremulous from the effect of much contradictory advice, applied the torch.

Silence, thou Grieve and others, false prophets of disaster! Who now could say that Pettybaw bonfire had been badly built, or that its fifteen tons of coal and twenty cords of wood had been unphilosophically heaped together?
The flames rushed toward the sky with ruddy blaze, shining with weird effect against the black fir-trees and the blacker night.

Three cheers more! God save the Queen! May she reign over us, happy and glorious! And we cheered lustily, too, you may be sure! It was more for the woman than the monarch; it was for the blameless life, not for the splendid monarchy; but there was everything hearty, and nothing alien in our tone, when we sang 'God save the Queen' with the rest of the Pettybaw villagers.
The land darkened; the wind blew chill.

Willie, Mr.Macdonald, and Mr.
Anstruther brought rugs, and found a sheltered nook for us where we might still watch the scene.

There we sat, looking at the plains below, with all the village streets sparkling with light, with rockets shooting into the air and falling to earth in golden rain, with red lights flickering on the grey lakes, and with one beacon-fire after another gleaming from the hilltops, till we could count more than fifty answering one another from the wooded crests along the shore, some of them piercing the rifts of low-lying clouds till they seemed to be burning in mid-heaven.
Then one by one the distant fires faded, and as some of us still sat there silently, far, far away in the grey east there was a faint flush of carmine where the new dawn was kindling in secret.