That fight within the Hall was more desperate than Fred had imagined,
for until overpowered by numbers, Sir Godfrey, his son, and the brave
and reckless Cavaliers by whom he had been surrounded, had fought in a
manner that kept their enemies at bay.
In the rush and noise and confusion of the struggle, Sir Godfrey had not
at first noticed the smoke, and when he did he was under the impression
that it was merely the result of the firing, and caused by the heavy
powder of the period. It was not until the flames had gained a hold on
either side that he realised the truth; and when it did come home to
him, he had staggered forward to strike at a couple of the many enemies
by whom he was surrounded, and whose swords had wounded him severely in
four places.
That blow was the last he could give, for, faint from loss of blood, the
effort was too great; he overreached himself, stumbled and fell prone
upon the polished floor. The moment before, his enemies were retiring,
but at the sight of the fallen officer one of the men raised a joyous
shout, and half a dozen charged back to make him prisoner.
It was at that moment Scarlett saw the great danger, and boy as he was,
rushed to the rescue, striking out boldly as he leaped across his
father, and keeping the enemy at bay.
The odds were absurd, and the men were only kept back by the suddenness
and dash of the youth's attack. Then, with a laugh of derision, they
were about to seize both, when a warning shout reached them, and they
rushed away to avoid the onslaught of the terrible enemy against which
their weapons were of no avail.
Scarlett saw the danger, and cowered down over his father as a wave of
flame was wafted above their heads, fortunately for them a current of
air keeping off the next just long enough for him to seize Sir Godfrey
by the wrists and drag him back into the centre of the hall, the
polished boards rendering the task an easy one.
"Escape, Scarlett. I am spent," said Sir Godfrey, faintly.
"What! and leave you, father?" cried Scarlett, excitedly.
"Yes. You cannot get away here for the fire. Run upstairs, my boy,
quick--leap from one of the windows."
"If you will come with me, father," said Scarlett.
"No, no, my boy; I am helpless. Make haste. The fire--for Heaven's
sake, make haste!"
The flames and their accompanying suffocating fumes advanced so fast
that for the moment the terrible peril unnerved Scarlett. The natural
inclination was to flee, and he received an additional impulse from his
father's words, which in their tone of urgent command made him dash
half-way up the broad staircase before he checked himself, turned
sharply, with one bound leaped down again to the floor, and ran to Sir
Godfrey's side.
"Father, I can't leave you to be burned to death," he cried. "It is too
horrible."
"Horrible? Yes," panted the wounded man; "but I can do nothing, my boy;
and you--you are so young. The poor old Hall--the poor old Hall!"
For a few moments Scarlett knelt beside his father, suffocating in the
gathering smoke, and looking about wildly for a way of escape, but
finding none; for the defenders had taken such precautions to keep the
enemy out, that in this time of peril, they had kept themselves in.
Even now Scarlett felt that, by making a bold rush through the fire and
smoke gathering in force to right and left, he might escape, singed and
scorched, perhaps, but with life. To attempt this, however, with a
wounded man, was impossible; and, with the strong desire for life
thrilling every fibre, he uttered a despairing groan.
As the mournful sound escaped his lips, he caught tightly hold of his
father's hands, to cling to them as if seeking strength, and asking him
to keep his weak nature from repeating its former act and taking refuge
in so cowardly a flight.
The hands he grasped felt wet and cold, and in the misty choking gloom
Scarlett could see that his father's eyes were nearly closed, and that
there was in them a fixed and glassy stare.
"He's dying!" he groaned; "he's dying!"
His son's cry seemed to rouse Sir Godfrey to a knowledge of his danger,
for his eyes opened wildly, and he gazed before him, and then struggled
to rise, but sank back against his son's arm.
"You have not gone!" he groaned. "Scarlett, my boy, escape!"
"I cannot leave you, father. Let me try and help you. If we could get
to the upper windows!"
"And ask our enemy to take us prisoners! No, no; my poor old home is
crumbling around me--where could I die better?"
"Oh, father!"
"But you, my boy, with all your young life before you! There is yet
time. God bless you, Scar! Good-bye!"
He made a faint effort to thrust his son away, but Scarlett still held
his hands, while the fire crackled and roared in the rooms on either
side, and kept on narrowing the space they occupied, as the great smoke
wreaths, pierced by ruddy tongues, rolled heavily overhead.
Scarlett set his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment, as a feeling of
horror ran through him, and there before him, beyond the smoke of the
burning woodwork, he saw in a instant the bright sunshiny paths of life
inviting him on and on for a long career, such as youth may look forward
to in its growing vigour; but he made a desperate effort to crush out
the temptation, clinging frantically to his father's hands as he groaned
despairingly--
"I cannot leave him. It would be too base."
Till that moment the shock of their position had robbed him of energy,
but no sooner had he come to the brave determination to stop and die
that horrible death by his father's side, than the strong current of
life seemed to bound again in his veins, and, with a feeling of wonder
that he could have been so supine--
"Father!" he cried; but there was no reply. "Father!"
Still no response, and he could just make out that the wounded man's
eyes were closed. But Scarlett was full of energy now, and, leaping up,
he seized Sir Godfrey by the arm, and dragged him by main force to the
foot of the great staircase.
"I must get him to the corridor somehow," he thought; and, stooping
down, he clasped his arms about him, terribly impeded by the breastplate
and backpiece he wore, and then, panting and suffocating, he dragged him
up step by step, every one being into a more stifling atmosphere. The
increasing heat bathed him with perspiration, and a growing sense of
languor made him feel as if each step would be the last.
But, raging and grinding his teeth in his efforts, he toiled on till the
topmost step was reached, and there he paused, chilled now by a terrible
and despairing sense of his position. The fire had eaten its way
upwards, and to drag his insensible burden to the right through the door
leading to the servants' apartments, or to the left along the corridor,
was on either hand into a burning furnace.
Scarlett Markham sank upon his knees beside his father on the polished
oaken floor of the gallery, and giddy now with the heat and exhaustion,
his lips cracking, and every breath he drew laden with the poisonous
fumes, he felt that all was over, and, with a prayer coming confusedly
to his mind, he made a snatch at his father's hand, missed it, and fell
sidewise.
But even then there was the natural involuntary effort to save himself
from falling headlong backwards from top to bottom of the stairs, and
one hand grasped at the balustrade, caught one of the carved oaken
pilasters; there was a sharp cracking sound, the stair by his shoulder
shot back an inch or two, and a draught of cold revivifying air
literally rushed whistling through the orifice.
It was life, energy, hope, renewed courage, all in one, as he gasped and
panted and wildly thrust back the loose stair till the way was open;
and, gathering strength as the fresh air rushed up into his nostrils on
its way to fan the growing flames, he seized his father where he lay on
the top of the staircase, drew him towards his breast, and let him drop
right into the opening, whose sloping floor made the rest comparatively
easy.
But Scarlett worked manfully, lying down beside his father, and edging
him along a few feet, before going back to close the opening in the
stairs.
He paused for a few moments, feeling now that he was safe, and gazed
upon the ruddy smoke clouds, listened to the roar and crackle of the
flames, which were now within a few feet; and as he gazed, he could see
that the sharp draught rushing by him drove the flame and smoke back,
and fanned the former till it glowed more brightly.
But there was no time to lose. Seizing the woodwork, he drew it over
his head, to find to his horror that already the heat had warped the
wood so that it was hard to move; and, feeling that no time was to be
lost, he rolled himself along, forced his father on and on, till the
horizontal shallow passage was at an end--a passage already growing
heated above where the fire licked the boards, and then, standing
upright and breathing freely, he paused to think of his next proceeding.