Yes; poor Falcon was dying. A crimson stream was running from a wound in its flank, and Paul knew that the horse had not many minutes to live.

"The scoundrel!" he said to himself between his clenched teeth, as he thought of the man who had wrought this cruel deed. Paul was one of those brave lads who would never wittingly have done an act of cruelty, least of all to one of God's dumb creatures. It touched him to the quick to see the poor horse dying. He knelt by its side, and his hand went caressingly over it. Falcon turned to him with such a look of pathos in its eyes that a big lump rose in the boy's throat, as though he were choking.

"I can do nothing for you, old fellow. I wish I could!"

There was no help near, and it was clear to see that if there had been it would have been useless. Falcon was breathing hard, in its last stern fight with death. Paul could not bear to see its pain. His hand moved up to its head. It soothed the horse. For a minute it lay perfectly still, and then, as though in that brief interval of rest it had been collecting its strength for a last great effort, it tried to rise to its feet again. It rose a little way, then fell. Again it turned its head to Paul, and looked at him with glazed eyes. A shiver went over every limb; then the noble horse lay quite still, and Paul knew that it was dead.

Tears came to his eyes. It was as though he had been standing by the death-bed of a human being. And, now that he was in the presence of death, he scarcely knew how to act. Suddenly the sound of distant voices roused him from the stupor into which he had fallen. For the moment, in his grief at Falcon's death, he had forgotten that he was being pursued—forgotten the message of which he was the bearer.

The sound of voices recalled him to his duty. If he remained there, his pursuers would soon discover him, and wrest from him the letter with which he had been entrusted. Falcon was dead. He could do no good by remaining. To make good his escape, no time must be lost. By God's good help, he might yet succeed in eluding his pursuers.

So he pulled himself together, resolved to go forward at all hazards.

"It is for Stan's father," he said to himself, as he tried to run. But he soon found that another misfortune had befallen him. The injury to his leg prevented him from running. It was only with an effort he could walk at any speed, and at every step he took he felt that his pursuers were gaining ground.

Redmead was close upon three miles away. How could he hope to reach it without being overtaken by the men who were so keenly pursuing him? Instinctively came to his memory the words he had so often heard in the village church—"The wicked oppress me—compass me about. They now compass me in my footsteps." And the cry of the Psalmist rose to his lips:

"Hold up my goings in Thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Show Thy marvellous loving kindness, O Thou that savest by Thy right hand them which put their trust in Thee. Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about. Arise, O Lord, disappoint him, cast him down."

With renewed strength he pressed on; but he had not gone far before he was compelled to slacken his pace. He realized that it was hopeless for him to evade his pursuers unless he could find some hiding-place. He looked around. There was no house near. But just a little ahead of him, to the right of the road, were the ruins of an old house which had been burned almost to the ground, and never been re-built.

As a drowning man clutches at a straw, Paul made his way to the ruins. But he had not gone more than a few paces through what had once been the garden of the house, when a voice cried:

"Hallo! Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Paul was somewhat startled, for he thought the place deserted. He found himself mistaken, however, for a boy came from the ruins and faced him. He was slightly taller than Paul, and of slimmer build; but he was none the less well proportioned, and his limbs moved with the easy movement of a young athlete. In spite of the dusk, Paul recognized him. He was one of the senior boys of St. Bede's—the scholars of which were the deadly rivals of Paul's school. There had been a perpetual feud between St. Bede's and Garside for many years. Sometimes it would be patched up for a week or two; then it would break out with greater violence than ever. Just before the vacation, the feud had burst out stronger than ever. There is no telling to what length it might have been carried, but, fortunately, the vacation came on, and hostilities were suspended. The boy before him was Wyndham, one of the ringleaders on the other side. The recognition was simultaneous.

"You're one of the bounders of Garside, aren't you?"

"Yes," Paul candidly admitted; "and you—you're one of the Bede's, aren't you? I haven't time to talk. There's some one after me. Can you put me up to a place to hide in?—quick, there's a good fellow!"

"Running away—eh?" said the other contemptuously, without moving. "That's like you Garside fellows!"

"I wish I had only the time to teach you better," retorted Paul indignantly. Then, remembering all that was at stake, he suppressed his indignation, and in quick, earnest tones: "I'm not sneaking—on my word of honour. I'm the bearer of an important paper, belonging to a chum's father. Two men are following me up to try to get it from me. If I can't steer clear of them they will take it from me. You know this place. Hide me somewhere!"

The earnest tones of Paul appealed to Wyndham.

"I don't know of any hiding-place, except——"

"Except what?" cried Paul eagerly, as he again caught the sound of voices from the roadway.

"The old well."

"The old well! How is it possible to hide there?"

"Well, I can let you down in the bucket, if you care to run the risk. I've been down it myself—but I'm not a Garside fellow."

It was as much as to say that "a Garside fellow" was not capable of doing what a "St. Bede fellow" could do.

"I'd run any risk—quick! I can near them coming! Where's the well?"

It was only a few paces from where they were standing. Wyndham led the way.

"I'll let you down a little way; then draw you up again directly the men have gone—that is to say, if they should come this way."

"They are coming this way. I feel sure of it, and there's no time to lose."

"Here you are, then. Keep steady, and don't make a sound. They won't think of you stowed away down there."

Paul got into the bucket. The chain was somewhat rusty, but though it was the worse for disuse, and creaked as it was lowered, it held firm. When Wyndham had lowered Paul a short distance, he made firm the chain; so that he was suspended half-way between the water and the top. It wasn't a very pleasant situation. A dank smell came from below, and it seemed the abode of darkness as the boy above shut out the last remnant of light by placing the cover a little way over the well.

Not a moment too soon, for he had only just finished when a man darted up to him and seized him by the collar.

"Ha! Got you at last, have I? A nice chase you've led us."

"What's the matter? That's my collar when you've done with it. Drop it, please!"

"Hand over that paper."

"What paper?"

"The paper you're taking to Redmead. Quick—out with it!"

Wyndham, though he did not appreciate the man's grip on his collar, was enjoying the joke. He could see what had happened. The man had mistaken him for "that Garside fellow" down the well.

"I would like to oblige you, but I really don't know what you're talking about. I haven't any paper."

By this time the second man had arrived on the scene. His sharp, ferrety eyes, which—like the eyes of a cat—seemed capable of seeing in the darkness, immediately went to Wyndham's face.

"Hi, Brockman! Hi! What are you doing? You have got hold of the wrong boy!"

"The wrong boy!" exclaimed the man addressed as Brockman. "Are you sure?"

"Certain! Where are your eyes?"

"They're not quite so sharp as yours, Mr. Zuker, I know; but I made sure I'd tracked the youngster here."

Paul could hear distinctly every word that passed from his uncomfortable position down the well. As the name Zuker fell upon his ears he trembled so that he nearly over-balanced himself and fell into the water below. It was not with fear. Zuker! That name was one he was never likely to forget so long as memory lasted. It was the name of the man for whom his poor father had sacrificed his life!

Could it be the same? It was not a common name, and though the man spoke English readily, it was with a German accent. Instinctively Paul felt that it was the same, instinctively he felt that the man who had been in pursuit of him was the man whom his father had tried to save from the sea so long ago. As a recompense for what the father had done he was hunting down the son!

"Thank you; it's very kind of you," said Wyndham, as Brockman released his hold. "Seems to me you're a little too hasty with your hands! The next time you take any one by the collar you'd better make sure first that you're going for the right one!"

Brockman turned away without deigning to reply. Zuker was about to follow his example, but, suddenly checking himself, he asked:

"Have you seen any one pass this way—a boy about your size—no, not quite so tall," as the sharp eyes took note of Wyndham's height.

"About my own size—not quite so tall? Let me see." Wyndham paused as though trying to remember.

"Make haste!" cried Zuker impatiently. "We haven't any time to lose. Surely you can remember."

"I'm trying to. You see, there are a good number of boys pass along this road during the day."

"I'm not speaking about the daytime—within the last quarter of an hour!"

"A quarter of an hour. Let me think."

"You'll get nothing from that blockhead, sir!" cried Brockman. "We're losing valuable time!"

Zuker had drawn near the well. His hand rested upon the handle. Wyndham was a cool boy, whom it took a great deal to disturb, but it must be confessed that he required all his coolness and self-possession at that moment. He was fearful lest Zuker might catch a glimpse of Paul down the well. But, fortunately, he was too intent on questioning Wyndham. So, after asking him one or two more questions, he said cuttingly:

"You're a sharp youth. You will set the Thames on fire some day—ugh!"

He looked for the moment as though he would spurn Wyndham with his foot; but instead of doing so he gave a vicious twist to the well-handle—to the no small alarm of Wyndham—and hastened after his tool and servant, Brockman.

Wyndham leapt to the windlass. The twist given by the German had set the bucket in motion. Paul was rapidly descending in the bucket to the bottom! He seized the handle in his hand and held on to it with all his strength. It vibrated as though it were a live thing. He feared that the sudden strain upon the chain might snap it in twain, but it held firm.

"Hi, hi!" he cried below. "Are you all right?"

A moment of intense silence—a moment which seemed interminable to the boy clinging to the handle of the windlass; then, to his great relief, the voice of Paul came faintly up the well:

"All right! But—but it's been a near thing!"

"Hold tight. I'm going to haul you up!"

Slowly he hauled Paul to the top of the well; and, with an inexpressible feeling of thankfulness, Paul stepped from the bucket.

"Have they gone?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes. A near thing, you said; what happened?"

"You just stopped me within about a foot of the water, and the sudden jerk nearly pitched me out of the bucket. The scoundrels have gone, you say?"

"Yes," smiled Wyndham; "they've gone in hot pursuit of you. They little dreamt you were down that well! You couldn't have had a better hiding-place."

"Better! Well, perhaps you're right; but it was a bit musty and uncomfortable! I'm much obliged to you, all the same. You seem a decent fellow, though you are a Beetle!"

Beetle was the nickname given by the Garside boys to the boys of St. Bede's.

Wyndham laughed. Paul glanced round the melancholy, deserted ruin. He could see no sign of human habitation.

"And you seem a decent fellow, though you are a Gargoyle." (Gargoyle was the nickname given by the St. Bede boys to the boys of Garside School.) "What's your name?"

"Paul Percival. I have often seen you amongst the other Beetles; but you don't live about here, do you?"

"Not now." And there was a deep note of melancholy in Wyndham's voice. "You can see, it's a ruin; but before it was a ruin I lived here with my mother and youngest brother, Archie. He's gone—now."

"Gone?"

Wyndham nodded, and Paul understood too well what "gone" meant. Wyndham's brother was dead; but he wondered what his death could have to do with the ruined house. There was a painful silence between them for some moments.

"I think you said you were going to Redmead?"

"Yes; Oakville, that's the house I want."

"I know it. Mr. Moncrief lives there. He's a big man at Chatham Dockyard, and has a lot to do with the defences of the Medway and the Thames, so I've heard. He designs things, too, for the Admiralty. I'm going partly that way if you don't mind walking with a Beetle."

Paul laughed, and remarked that he could put up for once with a Beetle if the Beetle could put up with a Gargoyle.

So they started together, and Wyndham told Paul by the way the reason of the ruined house.

His father and mother had taken the house soon after they were married. He, Gilbert, was born there; so was his younger brother Archie. Three years after the birth of Archie, God visited upon them a great misfortune by calling to Himself Mr. Wyndham. Gilbert had by this time started on his school career, for he was several years older than his brother. The second misfortune occurred while he was away at school, three years after the death of his father.

Little Archie was the idol of his mother, and a great pet with old Martha, the housekeeper, who had been in the household ever since the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham. Early one morning Mrs. Wyndham awoke with a feeling of suffocation. On looking, half dazed, around the bedroom, she found it full of smoke. Her first thought was of Archie. She made her way to his bed. It was empty! She went to the landing; that was full of smoke also. She called for her boy. No answer came. The bewildered mother imagined that he must have escaped from the burning house while she slept.

By God's providence she got out. She found that the two servants had managed to escape from the burning house; but there were no signs of little Archie! The distracted mother would have entered the burning house again to search for him, but she was held back. It was a merciful thing that she became unconscious, and did not see the end of the homestead where she had spent so many happy, peaceful hours. It was burnt almost to the ground, and amongst the ruins in the kitchen were found the charred remains of Archie.

The little fellow was fond of watching old Martha when she lit the fires. It was believed, therefore, that he had stolen out of bed that fatal morning and tried to light the fire in the kitchen on his own account. The lighted match set fire to his bedgown, the bedgown to some curtains, and so the fire had spread. Archie joined his father in heaven.

"I was away at school at the time," said Wyndham, when he had finished his painful story. "You can judge what a homecoming that was for me!"

"It must indeed have been sad," said Paul feelingly.

"My mother was ill for a long time, but at length she got well again. I was the only one left to her. After that we lived in a house about a mile from here. The ruins of the old house still remain, as you have seen. Some day my mother may build again, but she hasn't the heart for it at present."

The story of little Archie Wyndham is perfectly true. It is not fiction. It happened precisely in the way I have described. I know the terrible fascination that fire has for children. Unfortunately they do not understand its danger. When, therefore, my dear boy or girl, you are tempted to play with fire, will you remember the sad fate of little Archie Wyndham? That will enable you, by God's help, to put the temptation from you.

All at once Paul came to a dead stop. His hand went to his coat-pocket. Absorbed in Wyndham's story, he had forgotten all about the letter he was to take to Mr. Walter Moncrief.

"What's the matter?" asked Wyndham.

Paul's face had turned to an ashen hue. His hand was still searching his pocket.

"The letter!" he exclaimed.

"The letter—well, what about it?"

"It's gone!"

"Gone!" echoed Wyndham scarce able to believe his ears.