THE CONFLAGRATION.
Poor old Saracen continued his lamentable howl, nor could the warder
silence him. De Freston himself, as he entered the porch of the
Tower, said to his daughter--
'I lament leaving Saracen behind us, but we must guard this stranger.'
'Dear father, why do you brave the chill air to-night? I do not like
your coming. We could surely have shown the stranger to the spot,
and have seen him perform his devotions without your running the risk
of cold. Pray, dear father, keep your cloak close around you. The
chill air blows keenly across the Orwell, and this is a night only
for the young, whose blood can be kept in circulation by exercise.'
'Thanks, my dearest child. I shall take no hurt. I have a twofold
duty in this visit to the Tower. I shall see the arms of Wolsey in
your favorite window, and that will be a pleasing memento of a
once-learned but too ambitious man.
'The poor disguised monk, old and infirm, will also see that we have
a very scientific room, and I intend to speak a few words of truth to
him appropriate to this occasion. Moreover, after all our
festivities to-night, I cannot tell you why, but I have feeling, a
desire, a sort of indescribable wish, to look upon the tranquil seat
of my fathers, from the turret, though it be only by our torches and
the stars. There is tranquillity in the thought after the agitations
of the hall.'
'I will say no more, dear father, but I am sorry that the night is so
cold.'
'Your heart is warm, dear child; proceed with the torches.'
They entered the Tower. The deceitful monk knelt down upon the stone
floor, crossed himself devoutly, and followed the torch-bearers
through the various rooms to the fifth story. He came to the window.
Again he knelt down, took from his bosom the cross, which in another
moment, after kissing repeatedly, he affixed to the centre of the
window.
Then taking his flask, which hung from his side, he pretended to take
the first draught of wine which he had been allowed to touch since
the moment of his making the vow until its completion. He laid the
carved horn upon the table, and again seemed lost in prayer.
Deceitful villain, at that moment he was making a double signal for
the destruction of two of the most magnificent houses in town and
country which the banks of the river Orwell owned. But they were the
seats of heretics, men adverse to the malignities, views,
corruptions, lies, and impositions of the Papal power, and though
very learned, very charitable, very wise, opulent, and humble, yet
hostile to the hierarchy of Rome, and therefore to be tormented,
persecuted, and driven from the land. The illuminated cross shone
conspicuous enough to lighten the room.
'Let us leave the pious pilgrim to his own meditations and ascend to
the turret, my child, for a few minutes.'
They ascended; they leaned upon the summit; but in a moment De
Freston felt a chill come over him, and he said--
'Ellen, I feel dizzy, my child; support me, Latimer.'----
He fell into the arms of his son-in-law and Cavendish, who placed him
upon the stone steps of the turret.
'Ellen, fetch the monk's flask of wine!'
She descended. There knelt the dissembling devotee.
'Father, I must take thy flask. My parent is suddenly taken ill.'
She waited not for his reply, nor did she see his smile. But ran
hastily up again with the flask, concluding that the man would follow.
He had done his work. He descended slowly, passed through the yet
ignorant torch-bearers, made his genuflections and crosses, and gave
his blessing solemnly to the men, and desired them to kneel and pray
in silence until he walked three times round the outside of the Tower.
The villain was soon gone, soon struck into the shades of Freston,
sought the shore, and, with sturdy steps, bade defiance to pursuit.
A cry, a lamentable cry, was soon heard, and all rushed from the
lowest room into the air. The whole castle was on fire.
Shrieks issued from the distance, and above their heads the
lamentations of one voice was heard from the lofty tower. The men
were in agony, between the hastening to the castle and the call from
above. Six ran toward the mansion; two, with fearful agony, ascended
the Tower.
Ellen was so completely engrossed with her parent's state, that she
cast not her glance over the battlements, but upon the leads, where
her father's serene face was looking up as if his eyes would pierce
the skies. She put the flask to his lips; she poured the wine into
his mouth--he drank. For a moment he seemed to revive; he felt for
his daughter's hands, he placed them in Latimer's, he kissed them; he
was speechless; he looked up, and with a gentle smile upon his lips,
he breathed his last.
It was at that moment the cry from the castle reached their ears; but
had it been a volcanic eruption it would not have attracted the
rivetted, deep rivetted devotion of the affectionate beings who then
knelt at the dead De Freston's feet.
Cavendish alone, in an agony of horror, exclaimed--
'The castle is on fire!'
Nor had these words, nor the sudden spectacle, power to turn the
souls of the true mourners from a greater object of their sorrow.
The castle was on fire, and more, Cavendish beheld over the waters in
the far distance, a blaze of light illumining the sky, and heard the
distant bells of the town of Ipswich sounding their alarm to arouse
the country.
It was a spectacle so appalling, that what with the woe around and
near him, even he, who had seen more sorrows than his years could
have been supposed to have known, was completely unnerved.
Latimer, recovering, bore his Ellen into the room beneath, where
servants came screaming in wild dismay to her increased but solemn
sorrowing. Latimer ordered De Freston's servants to remove their
master's body into the astronomical room, and torches to be there
lighted immediately.
There was no occasion for ordering furniture, for the assembling
people had been some time bringing across to the Tower whatever goods
and chattels could be saved from the conflagration.
Reuben Styles alone seemed to retain wisdom for ordering anything.
He knew Abdil was the perpetrator, and he kept his eye upon that wing
of the house, and soon saw the desperate fellow in wild and mad
despair climbing over the roof, and descending by the spouts from one
parapet to another. He had cut his leg severely with some broken
glass, and even in the fire, the villain might be seen with bloody
clothes trying to escape, and he did descend. So much broken up with
the woe were the people, that those who saw him pitied him, and
called to him to show him how to escape, none knowing, save the poor
fool, that he was the cause of the catastrophe.
Hundreds were employed in breaking the ice and throwing water.
Numbers kept arriving, but all--all in vain. Reuben Styles seemed to
assume a sudden command--men obeyed him. It was he who let the
bloodhound loose. It was he who, when the ruin was complete, which
it was by two o'clock that dreadful night--it was he who exclaimed,
when he heard that his master was dead, and the rest of his family
safe--it was he who exclaimed to the people--
'Let us pursue the incendiary. I know who he is. Dead or alive let
us bring him to Freston Tower. Follow me the stoutest of you all.
Follow me as many as dare. Bring Saracen along with you!'
The blood-hound was not long before he was on the scent for the blood
of Abdil Foley had dropped upon the snow across the moat, and when
Reuben took up a portion with the snow, and rubbed it on the nose of
Saracen, and tracked him on the slot, the brave dog, with one lift of
his head, and a solemn, deep-toned note of recognition, pursued the
villain, who, conscience-smitten, fled from the terror of his deeds.