I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I did not seek to dissemble.

“As you please,” said he.  “You’ve been a prig in life; a prig you’ll die.”

And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle over his knee, and amused himself with snapping the lock; but I could see that his ebullition of light spirits (the only one I ever knew him to display) had already come to an end, and was succeeded by a sullen, scowling humor.

All this time our assailants might have been entering the house, and we been none the wiser; we had in truth almost forgotten the danger that so imminently overhung our days.  But just then Mr. Huddlestone uttered a cry, and leaped from the bed.

I asked him what was wrong.

“Fire!” he cried.  “They have set the house on fire!”

Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he and I ran through the door of communication with the study.  The room was illuminated by a red and angry light.  Almost at the moment of our entrance, a tower of flame arose in front of the window, and, with a tingling report, a pane fell inward on the carpet.  They had set fire to the lean-to outhouse, where Northmour used to nurse his negatives.

“Hot work,” said Northmour.  “Let us try in your old room.”

We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement, and looked forth.  Along the whole back wall of the pavilion piles of fuel had been arranged and kindled; and it is probable they had been drenched with mineral oil, for, in spite of the morning’s rain, they all burned bravely.  The fire had taken a firm hold already on the outhouse, which blazed higher and higher every moment; the back door was in the center of a red-hot bonfire; the eaves we could see, as we looked upward, were already smoldering, for the roof overhung, and was supported by considerable beams of wood.  At the same time, hot, pungent, and choking volumes of smoke began to fill the house.  There was not a human being to be seen to right or left.

“Ah, well!” said Northmour, “here’s the end, thank God!”

And we returned to My Uncle’s Room.  Mr. Huddlestone was putting on his boots, still violently trembling, but with an air of determination such as I had not hitherto observed.  Clara stood close by him, with her cloak in both hands ready to throw about her shoulders, and a strange look in her eyes, as if she were half hopeful, half doubtful of her father.

“Well, boys and girls,” said Northmour, “how about a sally?  The oven is heating; it is not good to stay here and be baked; and, for my part, I want to come to my hands with them, and be done.”

“There’s nothing else left,” I replied.

And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with a very different intonation, added, “Nothing.”