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.