conflagration within the court spread faster and nearer every moment, and from the blazing rafters and large masses of thatch caught by the wind and hurled on the very wall, done greater and more irreparable mischief than the combustibles themselves.  Up, up, seeming to the very heavens, the lurid flames ascended, blazing and roaring, and lighting the whole scene as with the glare of day.  Fantastic wreaths of red fire danced in the air against the pitchy blackness of the heavens, rising and falling in such graceful, yet terrible shapes, that the very eye felt riveted in admiration, while the heart quailed with horror.  Backwards and forwards gleamed the forms of men in the dusky glare; and oaths and cries, and the clang of swords, and the shrieks of women, terrified by the destruction they had not a little assisted to ignite—­the sudden rush of horses bursting from their stables, and flying here and there, scared by the unusual sight and horrid sounds—­the hissing streams of water which, thrown from huge buckets on the flames, seemed but to excite them to greater fury instead of lessening their devouring way—­the crackling of straw and wood, as of the roar of a hundred furnaces—­these were the varied sounds and sights that burst upon the eye and ear of Nigel, as, richly attired as he was, his drawn sword in his hand, his fair hair thrown back from his uncovered brow and head, he stood in the very centre of the scene.  One glance sufficed to perceive that the rage of the men-at-arms was turned on their treacherous countrymen; that the work of war raged even then—­the swords of Scotsmen were raised against each other.  Even women fell in that fierce slaughter, for the demon of revenge was at work, and sought but blood.  In vain the holy abbot, heedless that one sudden gust and his flowing garments must inevitably catch fire, uplifted his crosier, and called on them to forbear.  In vain the officers rushed amidst the infuriated men, bidding them keep their weapons and their lives for the foe, who in such a moment would assuredly be upon them; in vain they commanded, exhorted, implored; but on a sudden, the voice of Sir Nigel Bruce was heard above the tumult, loud, stern, commanding.  His form was seen hurrying from group to group, turning back with his own sword the weapons of his men, giving life even to those who had wrought this woe; and there was a sudden hush, a sudden pause.

“Peace, peace!” he cried.  “Would ye all share the madness of these men?  They have hurled down destruction, let them reap it; let them live to thrive and fatten in their chains; let them feel the yoke they pine for.  For us, my friends and fellow-soldiers, let us not meet our glorious fate with the blood of Scotsmen on our swords.  We have striven for our country; we have striven gloriously, faithfully, and now we have but to die for her.  Ha! do I speak in vain?  Again—­back, coward! wouldst thou slay a woman?” and, with a sudden bound, he stood beside one of the soldiers, who was in the act of plunging his dagger in the breast of a kneeling and struggling female.  One moment sufficed to wrench the dagger from his grasp, and release the woman from his hold.