"Fire! fire?" Who starts not at that terrible cry?

The terrified women had scarcely told their tale, before all the men in the "Hargrave Arms" were on their feet, starting into the open air. They soon perceived cause for alarm. Proceeding from that quarter of the village where the houses lay closest together, rose a column of smoke and flame, blown hither and thither by the boisterous wind, which was spreading the red sparks in every direction, tossing them high in the air, and then suffering them to fall on some distant cottage, whose thatched roof rendered it a ready prey.

So rapidly had the fire spread, that several cottages were already burning, and the men ran hither and thither from one to the other in consternation, and uncertain what course to pursue to save their property. All seemed at stake—wives, children, the sick, household furniture, the cherished articles purchased, perhaps, by long and mutual saving before marriage, and therefore doubly dear—and these thoughts occurring to each, confused the movements of all.

But, in the midst of these sudden difficulties, the coolness of the stranger did not desert him. He had followed his companions from the inn, to ascertain the cause of alarm, and he was almost immediately after seen leading his horse. Arresting the attention of old Giles, he enquired—

"Where shall we send for fire engines?"

"There is not one to be had nearer than Cheltenham," was the reply.

"Now then," cried he, seizing a young man, who was hurrying about, scarcely knowing what he did, "do you know the road to Cheltenham?"

Being answered in the affirmative, he bade him mount his horse, and ride as fast as possible in search of engines. Well he knew his own good steed would die rather than give up the journey, and, though he sighed as he thought how long the way would be, he dared not reckon his horse's life against those of his fellow creatures.

His next effort was to bring the scattered crowd a little into order, for the purpose of checking the rapid spread of the fire. Nothing secures obedience to a command so much as the decision and coolness with which it is given; and all were soon engaged in pulling down, at his suggestion, the cottage which lay nearest to those already burning.

But the futility of the attempt was soon perceived by the sparks leaping over and catching the roof of a more distant tenement. As soon as the fire touched it, an up-stair lattice-window was thrown open, and a woman leaning out, and raising her hands wildly in the air, cried aloud for help.

"Come down," said the stranger, in a voice distinctly heard above the tempest, and the confused noises around him, "come down, and you are safe—nothing hinders you."

"My father!" screamed the woman, "I cannot move him—come up, in mercy, come to me. Help! help!—we are all on fire!"

The stranger, followed closely by Clair, who, on hearing the tumult had hurried to the scene, accompanied by his uncle, hastened into the house, and soon reached the upper room, from which the woman had called for assistance. The strong fire-light gleaming on all around, disclosed to their view a room, which made the stranger shudder. A low bedstead, scarcely raised from the ground, with a box in one corner, on which an old coat was lying, formed the only furniture of the room; while thin holes in the lath and plaister wall, let in the cruel blast. On the floor was lying an old man, with some bed-clothes huddled round him. It seemed that his daughter had dragged him from the bed; but had been unable to get him farther than the door.

"Father's been bed-ridden these two years," said the woman, hastily, "he cannot crawl down stairs, and I cannot carry him."

"You are safe now," said the stranger, in a re-assuring voice. "Follow us;" and he took the old man up in his powerful arms. "Why do you stay?" he said, turning at the door. "Could there be anything worth saving," thought he, "in this wretched hovel—anything but life?"

The woman soon joined them, bearing in her arms, a small geranium-pot, and an old Bible.

The stranger turned aside his head, and the old man wondered to see a tear in his fearless eye.

Gently placing his burden on the ground, he returned to the house, and, leaning his shoulder against the door, forced its rusty hinges to give way, then, throwing the scanty mattress upon it, he lifted up the old man, and placed him securely on this hastily formed litter, which had been constructed before the woman had time to think of her deliverance. He then called to two or three able-bodied men,

"For the love of mercy," cried he, "carry this poor man to Aston Manor, and tell the house-keeper to see to his comfort."

"She'll never open the doors," growled the men in surprise.

"I tell you she will," cried he, as quickly roused by opposition as a spoilt child, "take him along with you."

Thus urged, the men took up the rude litter, and, attended by the woman bearing her cherished treasures in her arms, they made as much haste as could be, to the Manor House, leaving the burning village behind them. They needed neither moon nor stars to help them on their way, for the sky was red with light, and the hills around reflected back the fire—many times had they to rest, and often, as they did so, they turned their eyes back—where sometimes the attempts of the villagers would give a temporary check, or, the falling in of some roof, would damp the flame, and give a moment's hope, till, presently, it would again burst forth with wilder fury than before.

Then, urged with the desire to get back, or the curiosity to know whether they would really be admitted beyond the closely shut door of the Manor House, they moved on more quickly up the narrow pathway which lay most directly in a line with it. Presently, they perceived a man hurrying towards them, with a frightened and bewildered air. On coming closer, they recognised the hated bailiff Rogers—he was one whose manners, though smooth and oily to his superiors, were, to his inferiors, blustering and loud; not indeed the off-hand manner which often accompanies and conceals a good and kindly heart, but rather a studied recklessness of wounding the feelings of others, a total forgetfulness of the circumstances and tempers of those dependent on him, to whom a kind word would have cost him nothing. Alas, since our feelings are so finely tuned, why are we not more careful how we play on those of others. But Rogers found that this deliberate carelessness of offence, was, with the timid, a skilful weapon, for it made them fear him, and he rejoiced in the influence this fear gave to him. He forgot in the day of power, how little substance it possesses, or that the sway of tyranny bears in itself the elements of decay, and must crumble away before the force of circumstances.

He was evidently at that moment feeling at a disadvantage. His thin, lanky figure hastily attired, looked not half so important as usual, and he was trembling within with agitation or cold.

The whole party stopped; and the eldest of the young men, whose countenance was very far from prepossessing, drawing the bailiff aside, said, with a low, chuckling kind of laugh—

"Are you going down to the village, sir?"

"Yes," replied Rogers, "I have not come from it very long, and only just stepped back to the Manor. But why do you ask?"

"Because, if you take my advice, you'll keep as clear of it as you can, for the men are hot, and you know, sir," he added, with a low laugh, "they aint all on em very particlar friends o'yourn. I heard words spoke to-night, as may be you would not like."

"I must go, however," replied Rogers, with a shaky attempt to look swaggering, "and I should like to see what the cowards dare do."

"I tell you ye'd better not," said the young man, decisively, "but I've given my warning, I heard some one say, it was very hard if one life was not lost in the bustle to-night—though I do not like peaching, but I owe you a good turn for sending Sally Lyn and her old sick father out of their cottage, that cold Christmas night, at my asking," he added, with a bitter laugh.

Rogers did not look particularly obliged by this grateful reminder, that he had once lent himself to his revenge at an easy bribe. As the mingled smoke and flame rose in columns of awful majesty, like the workings of a supernatural power, till he felt sickened at the sight, he would have given a great deal could the young man have recalled one single act of disinterested mercy.

"Yet I must go," he said, at length, "I cannot help it."

"Well, then, be careful, that is all," replied his companion.

Rogers smiled nervously, and passed slowly on towards the village, leaving him to join the others, who, anxious to complete their task, were waiting impatiently for him.

They had not much further to go, and soon entered a side gate from which a narrow pathway led through a shrubbery of evergreens, round to the back entrance. Here two or three dogs began to greet them with a loud bark, giving no very pleasing indications of welcome; and, as they carried their living burden up the court-yard, they felt half inclined to turn back or to leave the sick man at the door to speak for himself; but the woman hastily prevented them by ringing loudly at the bell, which sounded through the building, making her heart sink. There was rather a lengthened pause, and, tired with waiting for the unexpected welcome, and anxious to shift the responsibility from themselves, the men laid down their burden, and, spite of the woman's entreaties, left them to their fate. They had scarcely passed the court-yard before they heard the sound of doors unbolting, but they did not stop to enquire further, and hurried back to the village, glad to escape from an office of which they were heartily tired.

On their return, they found the place full of confusion; women and children, endangered by the falling sparks, were running in all directions; Mr. Ware, with a bottle of brandy and a glass, was moving about, giving enough to the fainting men to keep up their strength, and to encourage them to continue the labour of carrying water to throw upon the flames.

"We must save the Manor House and the rectory, at least," said the stranger, to a group of men who thronged around him in despair at the failure of every effort; "but I see no hope for the thatched cottages."

"And the church," said Mr. Ware; "but that stands alone, and, I hope, is safe."

"I would not raise my hand," said a sullen voice, which all recognized as that of Martin the poacher—"I would not raise a hand to save the Manor House, if I were to die for it."

"Shame on you," said the stranger; "if it be necessary, I will make you."

"I should like to see how," said Martin, scowling on him; "there is not many as can make me do as I don't like. And I say, if the master leaves us to starve, he may take care of his house himself. Share and share alike. We owe him little enough."

And he turned his eyes towards the fire, and pointed to his own cottage which was smouldering in ruins.

The stranger fixed his quick eye upon him for a moment, and then turned to Rogers, who, making his way through the crowd, came up, and whispered for a few moments in his ear. He bent his head to listen, and then looking at those around him, he said, as he fixed his keen eye on Martin.

"I have received a message, which tells me, friends, that Aston Manor is now open, for the women and children who may like to take refuge in it; and you may put any of your furniture, which you can save, in the stables; there it will be in safety. I understand that there are many fine pictures, statues, and ornaments of every kind there, and I need not ask you to take care of them."

Every one listened with surprise to this unusual news; but he bade them hasten to send their wives and children away. "We shall be able to act better when they are gone, sir," he said, bowing, for the first time, to Mr. Ware, who failed not to applaud a measure, at once humane and judicious, since it gave an object, to the discontented, to protect the mansion should it be necessary.

In a short time, all the children had left the scene; but most of the women remained, employed in dragging the furniture from the fire, either laying it in heaps, or carrying it towards the stables.

Suddenly a frightful yell burst upon every ear.

"Some poor creature is in danger," said the stranger, who was the first to speak—"I thought you had searched the burning houses. Come all of you."

So saying, he sprang to the nearest cottage, whose blazing roof threatened every moment to fall in.

Clair followed him closely, crying aloud—

"Do not venture, the roof is coming down—I have searched that place myself."

But, as he said so, another yell sounded upon their ears.

"The door is tied here," said the stranger, tearing at a well-knotted cord with impatient violence—but it would not give way. "Help me then," he said to Clair; and, leaning his shoulder against the door, the hinge snapped, though the cord remained firm.

The apartment, on which they thus entered, was bare of anything, save one living object. Both started, as they beheld the wretched Rogers, tied round the waist, by a thick cord, to a strong piece of wood which ran up the side to the ceiling. His eyes were glaring and distended—his face filled with death-like anguish. Blood was gushing from his mouth and nostrils, for he had ruptured a blood vessel in his attempts to free his hands and mouth from the bandages, which appeared to have been tied over them.

"Wretched man, repent before it is too late," said the stranger, as he hastened to undo the cords which bound him.

It was not an easy matter, and every moment seemed an age of peril to the three.

Rogers opened his eyes, wide with horror, upon the stranger, for a moment, and then turned aside his head and fainted. The room was heated to suffocation, and fast filling with smoke. Clair felt sick with horror; but the stranger, whose thought seemed action, raised Rogers in his arms. With his head laid carefully on his shoulder, and his own hands and garments dripping in his blood, he bore him out, assisted by Clair. Scarcely had they cleared the threshold, when the roof fell in, and the cottage was in ruins.

A shout, from those who had feared to follow, welcomed them as they appeared; and the stranger staggered through the ruins spread around him, to the group who anxiously waited them. He singled out Mr. Ware, and laid his fainting burden at his feet, then, bending his knee in Eastern fashion before him, he said—

"Father, judge who hath done this, for he is a brother, though a sinful one."

A murmur of horror passed through the crowd; and Mr. Ware, kneeling by the side of the hated Rogers, tried to reanimate him.

"He is not dead, sir," said he, in a low voice; "he will live, I trust, if we can once revive him."

"He will have time to repent, I hope," said old Giles; "bring some water to moisten his lips, and let us clear the blood from his mouth."

"Will you watch by him, sir?" said the stranger, again addressing Mr. Ware, "he is too sinful to die; and if he wakes, you can give him comfort."

"I will," said he, "I will take care of him."

The stranger covered his face with his hands, as if anxious either to shut out the scenes which had terrified him, or to collect his thoughts.

Then rose a hasty cry, "Widow Dacre's—the fire has taken it—there are sparks on the roof."

He started, as if with sudden pain, and then ran wildly towards the hill, at the bottom of which lay the widow's cottage. On its height the church looked down in its holy stillness, and between both lay the picturesque thatched cottage belonging to Mrs. Lesly.