"What can make the dogs bark in this manner?" exclaimed Mrs. Pendarrel to her husband and daughter. "Surely not the thunder."

"I cannot tell what it is, my dear," answered her spouse, who was nearly asleep after his return from Bodmin, in spite of the external uproar. "I wish they and the thunder would both be quiet."

Mildred went behind the curtains of a window. Thick as they were, the flashes of lightning had yet gleamed through them.

"What a tremendous night!" she exclaimed.

"Come from the window, Mildred," said Mrs. Pendarrel; "it is dangerous to stand there."

"Ha!" cried the daughter, "there is fire. It cannot be the lightning! Mamma! Papa!"

The urgency of her tone brought them both to the window. A red glare streamed over the lawn, and shone bright upon the dripping trees. Fire was there indeed.

Gabriel Denis, by this time wild with passion and excitement, had soon discovered the means of gratifying his turbulent desires. A range of farming offices, with some ricks, stretched to the west, and therefore to windward, of the hall. Let these be once kindled, and inactivity would soon give way to riot and confusion. The smuggler had not forgotten his tinder-box. He crept down into the homestead, found a convenient nook, and soon lighted a flame, which nothing but the speediest and most energetic exertion could hinder the furious wind from converting into a great conflagration.

Unhappily the tempest, closing doors and fastening shutters, prevented an immediate discovery of the blaze, and the heavy rain was powerless to check its progress under the fanning of the gale. The interior of the corn-stack, fired by Gabriel, rapidly became a furnace, while volumes of steam and smoke rolled from the wetted thatch, and were shortly followed by jets of flame bursting from the inside. Then masses of burning straw were lifted aloft by the wind and cast on the neighbouring ricks and wooden barns, and in scarcely more time than is occupied by this description, the homestead was evidently doomed to destruction, and the safety of the hall was become very problematical.

It was just then that Mildred summoned her father and mother to the window.

"Hark!" she said, "Was not that a shout? See, there are people running across the lawn, and under the trees. But, oh, what a light!"

Terrified domestics rushed into the parlour.

"The house is beset—hundreds of men—What can be done? What can be done?"

These exclamations were mingled with loud cries of "fire," from within and without the mansion. In the confusion, Esther Pendarrel seemed alone to preserve her presence of mind.

"Done!" she said. "The engine! The horses! Ride! Run! To Helston, and to Marazione! Raise the people! Bring down the soldiers! Away with you; and let us see where the fire is. And you, sir, look to your arms. Beset! Nonsense!"

So saying, Esther proceeded to the wing of the hall next to the farm offices, which could not be seen from the living rooms, while her husband hurriedly distributed his fire-arms among the few servants who remained, when their fellows had departed to endeavour to fulfil the injunctions of their mistress.

Mildred accompanied her mother. "Fie," said the latter, seizing by the wrist one of a group of maids who were crying in terror, "fie, girl! Be silent; let us have no confusion. We want all our nerve."

One glance from the window to which she went showed Esther the full extent of the calamity. Long tongues of fire, bending and quivering in the fierce wind, were licking the roof of a low range of outhouses which connected the farm-yard with the hall. Esther remembered that there was a door of communication between these buildings and the house itself. Unless they could be pulled down, and that instantly, the mansion would be in imminent peril. And besides, behind them were the ricks and barns, vomiting a perfect sea of fire, from which large flakes were ever and anon borne by the gale over the hall. One such struck the window where Mrs. Pendarrel stood with her daughter, and made them start back for a moment. And what hope was there of help? By the red glare they could see men clustered about, either gazing on the flames with indifference, or exhibiting exultation in their gestures and movements. Amidst the crackling of the fire and the thunder of the storm, they could hear the savage hurrahs of the incendiaries. Whence, then, could come help?

"We are lost, my child!" Esther said quietly. "But I presume they do not intend to burn us as well as the hall. Courage, dear."

She threw her arm round Mildred's waist, and led her back to the main stairs. There they found Mr. Pendarrel, and two or three men-servants, armed, but undetermined what to do.

"Husband," Esther whispered, "in five minutes all the west wing will be in flames. Nothing can save us, unless the troops arrive in time. Where are the girls? They must all be here."

The last words were spoken aloud.

"I will call them, mother," Mildred said; and she ran back to the offices.

"We have no chance," Esther continued as before, "unless the ruffians should turn——Hush! Hark!"

There was a clatter of steps to the door of the hall, succeeded by a loud knocking.

"Be ready," said Esther. "Let us not be outraged."

"Shall we not escape?" her husband asked. "By the back windows——"

"Are the maids all here? Where's Mildred?"

"I am here, dear mother," was the breathless reply, "and so are they."

"Then let us go," said Esther sadly. "Go through the drawing-rooms. To meet at the chief lodge. And you, my friends, will guard us as best you may. But for the fire, we might do more. All now would be in vain."

Bare-headed, the little party went out into the storm. Esther stoutly maintained her own heart, but she had much ado to keep up the courage of her companions. With quick but faltering steps they made their way through the shrubbery, in the direction Mrs. Pendarrel had indicated; looking back with hasty glances, and perceiving that the flames were now flying over the roof of the mansion, the west wing having already become their spoil. A little more delay, and perhaps escape had been impossible. And there were other dangers besides the fire.

The fugitives had just turned round the corner of a thick clump of laurels, when they found themselves in the presence of a crowd of men, who immediately surrounded them, preventing their further progress, insulting them both with words and gestures. Mr. Pendarrel, bewildered, fired a pistol, and the rabble rushed in upon him and those with him, incensed and excited beyond all control. It was a moment of despair. Esther pressed her daughter to her breast, and opposed herself to the assailants. Her husband, also, and the men-servants maintained a manful struggle. But numbers were prevailing, when the ruffians were themselves attacked in the rear. A throng of country people, apparently acting in concert, charged them suddenly, and with the first attack, drove them clear of their intended victims.

"Fly, madam," then said a voice beside Mrs. Pendarrel. "Fly. There are none now but friends in the way. And remember Edward Owen."

And Esther acted instantly on the advice, knowing that, whether true or false, it afforded the only hope for safety.

In the mean time, the hall-door had yielded to its assailants, and ruffianism triumphed through the mansion. Some fellows made their way to the cellars, and drank desperately, while others rioted through the various apartments in search of more valuable booty. Not a few quarrels arose for the possession of some portable trinket, upon which two of the marauders might have seized at once. Shouts and screams, and execrations resounded on all sides. And above them all rose the crackle of the advancing flames, not unlikely to inflict a well-merited doom upon some of those who exulted in them.

But many of the country-folks, aroused by the emissaries who escaped from the hall at the first alarm, had thronged to render assistance in subduing the flames. They were, however, disconcerted at finding themselves intercepted by a mob, whose intentions were precisely the reverse of their own. Coming singly or in small knots, without any community of action, they were unable to make any impression upon the banded ruffians, and they either departed to seek further aid, or became passive spectators of the ruin that was befalling Pendarrel.

There was one, however, of a different mood. Edward Owen, although he had attended the meeting at Castle Dinas, and accompanied the mob, shuddered at the devastation before him. So soon did he experience the truth of Randolph's words. Recoiling too late, but desirous to atone if possible for what was past, he hovered on the skirts of the crowd, and soon collected a tolerably formidable body of the well-disposed, with which to repress further outrage. They made their first show of prowess in rescuing the fugitive family: but beyond this their efforts were unavailing: the fire had obtained too great a head to be withstood.

The main fury of the storm had now passed; the rain had nearly ceased, and the wind had fallen; the lightning still flashed, and the thunder muttered in the east, while the western sky was once more becoming clear. But the flashes were too faint to be seen, and the muttering too low to be heard, in the bright glare and loud crackling of the flames that were devouring Pendarrel Hall. All the centre of the mansion, containing the great stairs and principal apartments, was in full conflagration. From window after window, as the glass flew under the heat, a long stream of fire shot forth, joining the ruddy blaze that broke from the roof. Once, a human form appeared in the midst of such a torrent, flinging its arms about in wild supplication for a few moments, and disappearing, either within or without. Above the house curled vast volumes of smoke, black, white, and yellow, filled with sparkling fragments, and glowing in the light of the flames. A flock of pigeons fled to and fro over the bright vapour, and every now and then a bird dashed into it, and dropped as if shot. Round about, on all sides, as near as the heat permitted, rushed the incendiaries, exulting in the destruction they had accomplished, and hailing every fresh burst of fire with frantic acclamations. Behind, at a little distance, the trees, still streaming with the recent rain, reflected the red glare from every branch. Farther off, a cottage window or a white wall, lighted more dimly, might denote the rising ground of the neighbourhood. And over all, were the dark clouds of the retreating tempest, the fury of which had that night caused no catastrophe so disastrous as was here wrought by the hand of man.

The family, so rudely driven from their home, succeeded in reaching the lodge designated by Esther for their rendezvous. Faint with excitement—even Mrs. Pendarrel's spirit failed her when she was safe from immediate peril—exhausted by their flight, deluged with the rain, they met together in a small room of the cottage, round a window which looked towards their late abode. With a sort of vacant despair they watched the flames which rose above the intervening trees, and showed the progress of ruin. The hall itself they could not see. Mildred sat, leaning upon her mother's shoulder, and holding her hand, while Mr. Pendarrel rested against the side of the casement. Not a word was spoken; and the only sounds that broke the silence of the lodge, were the subdued noise of the flames, and the shouts of the marauders.

But Mr. Pendarrel, with his ear against the wall, has now caught another sound; regular, rhythmical, advancing along the road. Nearer it came, and nearer, and before the listener had changed his position, a squadron of dragoons passed the lodge on a hand-gallop, and were followed by fire-engines. Alas! why came they no sooner?

The messengers who had made their way from the hall at the first discovery of the fire, sped fast away to Helston, looking back at intervals towards the light in the sky. The distance was about five miles; the road was slippery with the wet; the flood of rain was almost blinding: a full hour had elapsed before the first of the runners shouted "fire" in the deserted streets of the little borough. The inhabitants were at rest, but few were asleep, the din of the storm preventing slumber. Night-capped heads peeped timidly from windows, and demanded—where? The messenger learned the officers' quarters. There was some little demur. False alarms had been given before. But the bugle soon sounded to horse. The drowsy firemen equipped their engines; and when once the cavalcade had started, rattling over the stony street, a very short space sufficed to bring it to the gates of Pendarrel.

The greater portion of the marauders, struck with consternation at the sight of the soldiery, fled among the trees of the park, to be denounced, perhaps, at a future day, by informing comrades. But a few, maddened by intoxication and excitement, offered a futile resistance, and were captured on the spot, to answer for their ruffianism, not improbably with their lives.

As for the engines, they could effect nothing. The well-disposed of the country people, who were by this time assembled in great numbers, assisted in bringing them into play, and water was obtained from an ornamental reservoir in the garden; but fire was master of the hall. To save a small quantity of furniture from the lower rooms in the eastern wing, and to collect articles which lay scattered on the lawns, was all that the utmost exertion could accomplish. The whole of the mansion had fallen in, and the burning would continue as long as there remained anything to furnish fuel. Blackened walls, open to the sky, containing nothing but smoking and smouldering ruin, would be all the morning sun would shine upon of Pendarrel Hall.