In the very heart of Dartmoor, far from human habitation, near two thousand feet above the level of the sea, but with no prospect in the clearest weather on any side upon cultivated land, stands at present, as stood two hundred years ago, and doubtless two thousand before that, a rude granite monolith, or upright stone, about fourteen feet high, having on it not a trace of sculpture, not the mark of any tool, even to the rectification of its rugged angles and rude shapelessness.

In every direction, far as the eye can range, extends brown, desolate moorland, broken here and there with lumps of protruding rock, weathered by storm into the semblance of stratification.

A bow-shot from this upright stone rises such a hump that goes by the name of Devil Tor; and the stone in question apparently formed originally the topmost slab of this granite pile. But when removed, by whom, and with what object, remains a mystery. The beauty of a vast upland region lies not in its core, but in its circumference, where the rivers have sawn for themselves valleys and gorges through which they travel to the lowlands in a series of falls, more or less broken. About the fringe, the mountain heights, if not so lofty as in the interior, show their elevation to advantage, towering out of the cultivated plains or undulating woodland at their bases.

In the centre there is less of beauty, because there is no contrast, and it is by comparison that we form our estimates.

In the heart of the upland all is equally barren, and the variations of elevation are small. This is especially the case with the interior of that vast elevated region of Dartmoor, which constitutes bog from which flow the rivers that pour into the Bristol Channel on one side, and into the English Channel on the other.

The monolith, blackened by lichen, standing in such utter solitude, was no doubt thought to bear some resemblance to the Great Enemy of Man, and the adjoining Tor was regarded as his throne, on which he seated himself but once in twelve months, on Midsummer Eve, when the Bale-fires flamed on every hill in his honour. On all other occasions he was erect in this eyrie region, peering east and west, north and south, to see what evil was brewing in the lower world of men.

Devil Tor is reached by very few, only now and then does a shepherd pass that way, as the bogs provide no pasturage. The peat there has grown from hoar antiquity undisturbed by the turf-cutter on account of the remoteness of the spot and the difficulty of transport. The fisherman never reaches it, for it lies above the sources of all streams.

The surface of the moor is chapped and transformed by the chaps into a labyrinth, of peaty hummocks and black and oozy clefts, the latter from six to twelve feet deep, running in every direction, and radiating out of each other at all angles. Why the peat is so cleft is hard to say, there is no running water in the gashes, which in many cases go down to the white granite like the fissures in the body of a leper that in places disclose the bone. It would almost seem as though the bitter cold of this region had chapped its surface, and that no soft warm weather ever came to mollify, and to heal its gaping wounds.

Evening had closed in, but not attended by darkness, for the whole sky was glowing. The moor was on fire.

The season was that early spring in which what is locally termed "swaling" takes place, that is to say, the heather is set fire to after the dry winds of March, so as to expose and to sweeten the herbage.

The recent season had been exceptionally dry, even for so rainless a season, and the fires that had been kindled near the circumference of the moor had run inwards, gained the mastery, and rioted over the whole expanse beyond control. They leaped from bush to brake, they crossed streams, throwing over tufts of flaming bracken, pelting the further shore, till that also was ignited.

They circumvented bogs, they scrambled up moraines of granite, locally termed clatters, they ran up the hills on one side, enveloped their rocky crests in lambent flame, and descended the further side in a succession of bounds, and now they raged unchecked in the vast untrodden interior, where the wiry heather grew to shrubs, and the coarse grass and rushes were dust dry. There it ate its way along, a red advancing tide, working to windward, with a low roar and crackle, snapping at every bush, mumbling the tufts of rush, tossing up sparks, flame, and smoke, so that in the general glow and haze every landmark was disguised or effaced.

To no distance could the eye reach, because the whole atmosphere was impregnated with smoke, the smoke red and throbbing with the reflection of the fires over which it rolled. Indeed, the entire firmament was aglow, at one time flashing, at another darkening, then blazing out again as a solar photosphere, responsive to the progress and force of the conflagration.

Crouched at the foot of the great upright stone, that rose over her as the Devil triumphing over his pray, was a girl, with sullen, bewildered eyes, watching the fires as they folded about her, like flame fingers interlacing to close in and squeeze, and press the life out of her.

Her hands were bandaged. She rested her chin on them. She was a handsome girl, but with the features irregular. She had large dark eyes—possibly at this moment appearing unduly large, as they stared with a vacant unconcern at the mingled darkness and flame. Her complexion was by nature a transparent sallow, but now it glowed—almost vermilion in the light of the burning moor. Her brow was broad, but low and heavy. The face was strange. When the long dark eyelashes fell, then there was in the countenance, in repose, a certain pathos, a look of sadness, of desolation; but the moment the eyes opened, this was gone, and the eyes proclaimed a sullen spirit within, underground, a smoulder of fierce passion that when stirred would burst forth into uncontrolled fury—akin to madness. When the lids fell, then the face might be pronounced beautiful, but when they rose, only the sullen, threatening eyes could be seen, the face was forgotten in the mystery of the eyes.

As the girl sat beneath the great black monolith her brooding eyes were turned as a brake exploded into brilliant flame. She watched it burn out, till it left behind only a glow of scarlet ash; then she slowly turned her head towards Devil Tor, and watched the fantastic shapes the rocks assumed in the flicker, and the shadows that ran and leaped about them, as imps doing homage to their monarch's chair.

Then she unwound the bandages about her hands, and looked at her knuckles. They were torn, and had bled, torn as by some wild beast. The blood was dry, and when she wrenched the linen from a wound to which it adhered, the blood began again to ooze. Her wounds were inflamed through the heat of the fires and the fever in her blood. She blew on them, but her breath was hot. There was no water within the engirdling ring of fire in which she could dip her hands. Then she waved them before her face, to fan them in the wind, but the wind was scorching, and charged with hot ash.

Sitting thus, crouched, waving her bloodstained hands, with the bandage held between her teeth, under the black upright stone of uncouth shape, she might have been taken for a witch provoking the fires to mischief by her incantations.

Suddenly she heard a voice, dropped the kerchief from her mouth, and sprang to her feet, as a shock of fear—not of hope of escape—went through her pulses to her heart. Whom was she likely to encounter in such a spot, save him after whom the Tor was named, and which was traditionally held to be his throne?

On the further side of the encompassing fires stood a young man, between her and Devil Tor; but through the intervening smoke and fire she could not discern who he was, or distinguish whether the figure was familiar or strange.

She drew back against the stone. A moment ago she was like a witch conjuring the conflagration, now she might have been taken for one at the stake, suffering the penalty of her evil deeds.

"Who are you? Do you desire to be burnt?" shouted the young man.

Then, as he received no reply, he called again, "You must not remain where you are."

With a long staff he smote to right and left among the burning bushes, sending up volumes of flying fiery sparks, and then he came to her, leaping over the fire, and avoiding the tongues of flame that shot after him maliciously as he passed.

"What!" he exclaimed, as he stood before the girl and observed her. Against the ink-black, lichened rock, her face, strongly illumined, could be clearly seen. "What! Urith Malvine?"

She looked steadily at him out of her dark, gloomy eyes, and said, "Yes, I am Urith. What brings you here, Anthony Cleverdon?"

"On my faith, I might return the question," said he, laughing shortly. "But this is not the place, nor is this the time, for tossing questions like shuttlecocks on Shrove Tuesday. However, to satisfy you, I will tell you that I came out in search of some ponies of my father's—scared by the fires and lost. But come, Urith, you cannot escape unaided through this hoop of flame, and now that you are contented with knowing why I am here, you will let me help you away."

"I did not ask you to help me."

"No, but I am come, unasked."

He stooped and caught her up.

"Put your arms around my neck," said he. "The fire will not injure me, as I am in my riding boots, but your skirts invite the flame." Then he wrapped together her gown about her feet, and holding her on his left arm, with the right brandishing his staff, he fought his way back. The scorching breath rushed about them, ten thousands of starry sparks, and whirled round and over them. He took a leap, and bounded over and through a sheet of flame and landed in safety. He at once strode with his burden to the pile of rocks where were no bushes to lead on the fire—only short swath, and a few green rushes full of sap.

"Look, Urith," said he, after he had recovered breath, "between us and the next Tor—whose name, by the Lord, I don't know, but which I take to be the arm-chair of Lilith, the Devil's grandam—do you see?—the very earth is a-fire."

"How, the earth?"

"The peat is so dry that it has ignited, and will smoulder down into its depths for weeks, for months, mayhap, till a Swithurn month of rains has extinguished it. I have known a moor burn like this all through the summer, and he that put an unwary foot thereon was swallowed like the company of Korah in underground fire."

The girl made no reply. She had not thanked the young man for having delivered her from the precarious position in which she had been.

"Where am I?" she asked, turning her head about.

"On Devil Tor."

"How far from home?"

"What—from Willsworthy?"

"Yes, from Willsworthy, of course. That is my home."

"You want to find your way back? How did you come here?"

"You ask me two questions. Naturally, I want to get to my home. As for how I came here—on my feet. I went forth alone on the moor."

"And lost your way?"

"Certainly, or I would not be here. I lost my way."

"You cannot by any possibility return direct over the bog and through the fire to Willsworthy. I could not guide you there myself. No man, not the best moor-shepherd could do this at such a time. But what ails your hands? You have hurt yourself."

"Yes, I have hurt myself."

"And, again, what induced you to come forth on the moor at such a season as this?"

The girl made no answer, but suddenly looked down, as in confusion.

She was seated on the rock of the Tor. Anthony Cleverdon stood somewhat below, on the turf, with one hand on the stone, looking up into her face, that was in full illumination, and he thought how handsome she was, and what a fortunate chance had befallen him to bring him that way to rescue her—not from death, but from a position of distress and considerable danger. Even had she escaped the fire, she would have wandered further into the recesses of the waste, becoming more and more entangled in its intricacies, without food, and might have sunk exhausted on the charred ground far from human help.

As Anthony looked into her face and saw the sparks travel in her eyes as the reflections changed, he thought of what he had said concerning the hidden fire in a moor, and it seemed to him that some such fire might burn in the girl's heart, of which the scintillations in her eyes were the only indication.

But the young man was not given to much thought and consideration, and the notion that started to his mind disappeared from it as suddenly as it flashed out.

"You cannot remain here, Urith," he said. "I must take you with me to Two Bridges, where I have stabled my horse."

"I should prefer to find my way home alone."

"You are a fool—that is not possible."

She said nothing to his blunt and rude remark, but revolved in mind what was to be done.

The situation was not a pleasant one. She was well aware that it would be in vain for her to attempt to discover the way for herself. On the other hand, she was reluctant to commit herself to the guidance of this youth, who was no relation, not even a friend, only a distant acquaintance. The way, moreover, by which he would take her home must treble the distance to Willsworthy. That way would be, except for a short portion of it, over high road, and to be seen travelling at night with a young man far from her home would be certain to provoke comment, as she could not expect to traverse the roads unobserved by passengers. Although the journey would be made by night, the packmen often travelled at night, and they were purveyors, not only of goods, but of news and scandal. She could not calculate on reaching home till past midnight; it would be sufficient to render her liable to invidious remark were she to make this journey with such a companion alone by day, but to do this at such a time of night was certain to involve her in a flood of ill-natured and ugly gossip. This thought decided her.

"No," she said, "I will stay here till daylight."

"That you shall not."

"But if I will?"

"You will find another will stronger than your own."

She laughed. "That can hardly be."

"Why do you refuse my guidance?"

"I do not want to go with you; I prefer to remain here."

"Why so?"

She looked down. She could not answer this question. He ought not to have asked it. He should have had the tact to understand the difficulty. But he was blunt of feeling, and he did not. Without more ado, he caught her in his arms and lifted her off the rock.

"If I carry you every step of the way," he said, roughly, "I will make you come with me."

She twisted herself in his grip; she set her hands against his shoulders and endeavoured to thrust him from her.

He threw aside his staff, with an oath, and set his teeth. Her hands were unbandaged. She had not been able to tie them up again, but she held the kerchiefs that had been wrapped round them in her fingers, and now they fell, and in her struggles her hands began to bleed, and the kerchiefs became entangled about his feet, and nigh on tripped him up.

"You will try your strength against me—wild cat?" he said.

She writhed, and caught at his hands, and endeavoured to unclinch them. She was angry and alarmed. In her alarm and anger she was strong. Moreover, she was a well-knit girl, of splendid constitution, and she battled lustily for her liberty. Anthony Cleverdon found that he had to use his whole strength to hold her.

"You are a coward?" she cried, in her passion. "To wrestle with a girl! You are a mean coward! Do you mark me?" she repeated.

"On my soul, you are strong!" said he, gasping.

"I hate you!" she said, exhausted, and desisting from further effort, which was vain.

"Well!" said he, as he set her down, "which is the strongest—your will or mine?"

"Our wills have not been tested," she answered, "only our strength; your male muscles and nerves are more powerful than those of a woman. God made them so, alack! That which I knew before, I know now, that a man is stouter than a woman. Boast of that, if you will—but as for our wills!" she shrugged her shoulders, then stooped and recovered her kerchiefs, and began impatiently, to cover her confusion, to re-adjust them about her hands, and to twist them with her teeth.

"And you will remain unbent, unbroken—to continue here in the wilderness?"

"My will is not to go with you."

"Then I use the advantage of my superior strength of nerve and muscle, and make you come along with me."

She took a step forward, still biting at the knots, but suddenly desisted, turned her head over her shoulder, and said, sullenly, "Drive—I am your captive." The step she had taken was acknowledgment of defeat.

"Come, Urith," said he, picking up his fallen staff, "it was in vain for you to resist me. No one opposes me without having in the end to yield. Tell me the truth—captive—captive if you will, tell me what brought you out on the moor? Was it to see the fires?"

"No, I ran away."

"Why did you run away?"

She was silent and strode forward, still pulling and biting at the knots.

"Come, answer me, why did you run away?"

"I was in a passion, slave-driver! Why do you say to me, 'Come, Urith?' I do not come, I go—driven forward by you."

"In a passion! What about?"

"My mother and Uncle Solomon worried me."

"What about?"

"That I will not tell you, though you beat me with your long stick."

"You know well enough, little owl, that I will not strike you."

"I know nothing, save that you are a bully."

"What! because I will not leave you on the moor to perish? Be reasonable, Urith. I am doing for you the best I can. I could not suffer you to remain uncared for on this waste. That would indeed be inhuman. Why, at sea it is infamy for a sailor to leave a wrecked vessel uncared for if he sights it."

There was reason in what he said. That she admitted in her heart. In her heart, also, she was constrained to allow that the difficult situation into which she had fallen was due to her own conduct. Anthony Cleverdon was behaving towards her in the only way in which a generous lad could behave towards one found astray in the wilderness. But she was angry with him because he was too dull to see that there were difficulties in the way in which he proposed to restore her to her home, difficulties which she could not, in delicacy, express.

Anthony did not press her to speak further. He led the way now, and she followed; whereas, at first, she had preceded, in her angry humour, and to maintain the notion that she was being driven against her will. Occasionally he turned to see that she had not run away. She was chary of speech, out of humour, partly with him—chiefly with herself.

The way led from one granite tor to another, through all the intricacies of fissured bog, till at length the two travellers reached a sensible depression or slope of the land, and now the water, instead of lying stagnant in the clefts, began to run, and presently in a thousand rills filtered down a basin of turf towards a bottom, where they united in a river-head.

The aspect of the country at once changed. It was as when a fever-patient passes from incoherent and inarticulate mutterings into connected syllables, and then to clearly distinct sentences. The wandering veins and seams in the bog had found direction and drift for their contents, acquired a cant down which the water ran, and valley, stream, and river were the definite result.

"Now," said Anthony, "our course is clear; we have but to follow the water."

"How far?"

"About four miles."

"And then?"

"Then I will get my horse, and we shall have a direct course before us."

"What, the high road to Tavistock?"

"No. You shall not go that way."

"By what way then will you take me?"

"By the Lyke-Way."