The squire started back, not a little alarmed at the sight of the motionless body.  He felt as though a terrible retribution had fallen upon somebody, who had been killed in the act of attempting to destroy his property.  Seizing his lantern, he retreated to the cellar stairs by which he had descended, and stood there for a moment, his tongue paralyzed, and his knees smiting each other, in the agony of terror.

We do not know what he was afraid of, but we suppose that instinctive dread which some people manifest in the presence of death, had completely overcome him.  Certainly there was nothing to be afraid of, for a dead man is not half so likely to do a person an injury as a living one.  But in a few minutes Squire Pemberton in some measure recovered his self-possession.

“There is a dead man down here!” he called up the staircase, in quaking tones.

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton.  “Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” replied the squire.

“Look and see who it is, father,” added Mrs. Pemberton.  “Perhaps he isn’t dead.”

“Stone dead,” persisted the squire.  “He fell into the cellar and broke his neck.”

“Go and see who it is—­will you?”

“Well, you come down and hold the light,” said the squire, who was not quite willing to say that he was scared out of his wits.

Mrs. Pemberton descended the stairs, followed by Susan and Fred, who had just returned from the front window, where he had exhibited the flag, which the crowd outside were still cheering.

“Who can it be?” continued the old lady, as she slowly and cautiously walked forward to the scene of the catastrophe.

“I don’t know,” replied the squire, in whom the presence of his family had spurred up a semblance of courage; for if a man ever is brave, it is in the presence of his wife and children.  “If it is one of the ruffians who came here to destroy my house, I am glad he has lost his life in the attempt.  It is a righteous retribution upon him for his wickedness.”

Mrs. Pemberton took the lantern, and the squire, still excited and terrified, bent over the prostrate form of the young marauder.  The victim lay upon his face, and the squire had to turn him over to obtain a view of his countenance.

“I declare it is one of the Somers boys!” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton, as her husband brought the face of Thomas to her view.

“The young villain!” ejaculated the squire.  “It is lucky he was killed, or the house would have been in flames before this time.  He is a desperate young scoundrel.”

“But he isn’t dead, father!” said Mrs. Pemberton, as she knelt upon the cold ground, and felt the pulse of the insensible boy.  “He is only stunned.”

“I am sorry for it.  If it had killed him, it would have served him right,” added the squire, who had suddenly become as bold as a lion—­as bold as two lions.

“Come, father, let’s carry him up stairs, and put him to bed.”