Taking the stout oak chair by opposite legs we pulled till they parted, and we were armed.
The door burst open and the miller went down headlong under Le Marchant's savage blow.
"Next!" he cried, swinging his club athwart the doorway.

But, though there were many voices, no head was offered for his blow.
The flames burned fiercely behind us.

With a crack of my chair leg I broke both windows, and the smoke poured out and relieved us somewhat, and the fire blazed up more fiercely still.

The flooring was all on fire and the dry old walls behind the bed, and we stood waiting for the next man to appear.
"Better give in, boys," cried someone in the outer room.

"You'll only make things worse for yourselves." But we answered never a word, and stood the more cautiously on our guard.
Then they began throwing buckets of water in at the door, and we heard it splashing also on the outer walls, but none came near the fire, since the bed was not opposite the door.
We were scorched and half smothered, but the draught through the door and out at the window still gave us chance to breathe.
The bedstead fell in a blazing heap, the flames crept round the walls.