a union in eternity. His words were few but earnest,
and for the first time the lip of Agnes was observed
to quiver—they were ONE. Agnes was
clasped to the heart of her husband; she heard him
call her his own—his wife—that
man should never part them more. The voice of
congratulation woke around her, but ere either could
gaze around to look their thanks, or clasp the eagerly
proffered hand, a cry of alarm, of horror, ran though
the building. A red, lurid light, impossible
to be mistaken, illumined every window, as from a
fearful conflagration without; darkness had fled before
it. On all sides it was light—light
the most horrible, the most awful, though perchance
the most fascinating the eye can behold; fearful shouts
and cries, and the rush of many feet, mingled with
the now easily distinguished roar of the devouring
element, burst confusedly on the ear. A minute
sufficed to fling open the door of the church for knights
and men-at-arms to rush forth in one indiscriminate
mass. Sir Christopher would have followed them,
utterly regardless of his inability, had not his wife
clung to him imploringly, and effectually restrained
him. The abbot, grasping the silver crosier by
his side, with a swift, yet still majestic stride,
made his way through the church, and vanished by the
widely opened door. Agnes and Sir Nigel stood
comparatively alone; not a cry, not a word passed her
lips; every feature was wrapped in one absorbing look
upon her husband. He had clasped his hands convulsively
together, his brow was knit, his lip compressed, his
eye fixed and rigid, though it gazed on vacancy.
“It hath fallen, it hath fallen!” he muttered.
“Fool, fool that I was never to dream of this!
Friends, followers, all I hold most dear, swallowed
up in this fell swoop! God of mercy, how may it
be born! And thou, thou,” he added, in
increased agony, roused from that stupor by the wild
shouts of “Sir Nigel, Sir Nigel! where is he?
why does he tarry in such an hour?” that rung
shrilly on the air. “Agnes, mine own, it
is not too late even now to fly. Ha! son of Dermid,
in good tune thou art here; save her, in mercy save
her! I know not when, or how, or where we may
meet again; I may not tarry here.” He clasped
her in his arms, imprinted an impassioned kiss on
her now death-like cheek, placed her at once in the
arms of the seer (who, robed as a minstrel, had stood
concealed behind a projecting pillar during the ceremony,
and now approached), and darted wildly from the church.
What a scene met his gaze! All the buildings
within the ballium, with the sole exception of the
church, were in one vivid blaze of fire; the old dry
wood and thatch of which they were composed, kindling
with a mere spark. The wind blew the flames in
the direction of the principal wall, which was already
ignited from the heaps of combustibles that had been
raised within for the purpose; although it was likely
that, from its extreme thickness and strength, the
fire had there done but partial evil, had not the