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."
As we went downstairs the heat was excessive, and the roaring of the fire
filled our ears; and we had scarce reached the passage before the stairs
window fell in, a branch of flame shot brandishing through the aperture,
and the interior of the pavilion became lighted up with that dreadful and
fluctuating glare.
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