THREE:His nostrils were always full of the smart of lime, and the stench of those horrible furnaces belching away on the slopes of the Moor. Would that burning never be done? For days the yellowy white pennons of destruction had flown on Boarzell, and that acrid reek polluted[Pg 299] the harvest wind. Boarzell was nothing but a huge funeral pyre, a smoking hell.... "And the smoke of her went up for ever and ever."The monk was at length perceived, for the treasurer, on raising his eyes, met the glance of father John. "My lord bishop," said he, "yonder stands the monk, John Ball!"
