At the same moment we heard the fall of something heavy
and inelastic in the upper story. The whole pavilion, it was plain, had
gone alight like a box of matches, and now not only flamed sky high to
land and sea, but threatened with every moment to crumble and fall in
about our ears.
Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddlestone, who had already
refused a firearm, put us behind him with a manner of command.
"Let Clara open the door," said he. "So, if they fire a volley, she will
be protected. And in the meantime stand behind me. I am the scapegoat; my
sins have found me out."
I heard him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, with my pistol ready,
pattering off prayers in a tremulous, rapid whisper; and, I confess,
horrid as the thought may seem, I despised him for thinking of
supplications in a moment so critical and thrilling. In the meantime,
Clara, who was dead white but still possessed her faculties, had displaced
the barricade from the front door. Another moment, and she had pulled it
open. Firelight and moonlight illuminated the links with confused and
changeful luster, and far away against the sky we could see a long trail
of glowing smoke.
Mr. Huddlestone, filled for the moment with a strength greater than his
own, struck Northmour and myself a back-hander in the chest; and while we
were thus for the moment incapacitated from action, lifting his arms above
his head like one about to dive, he ran straight forward out of the
pavilion.
Pages:
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283