CHAPTER LII.

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.