“Run! run!” cried the boy, turning white with terror.
“But the Eureka—my hope—my mind’s child!” exclaimed Adam, suddenly, and halting at the door.
“Eh, eh!” said Madge, pushing him forward. “It is too heavy to move; thou couldst not lift it. Think of thine own flesh and blood, of thy daughter, of her dead mother! Save her life, if thou carest not for thine own!”
“Go, Sibyll, go, and thou, Madge; I will stay. What matters my life,—it is but the servant of a thought! Perish master, perish slave!”
“Father, unless you come with me, I stir not. Fly or perish, your fate is mine! Another minute—Oh, Heaven of mercy, that roar again! We are both lost!”
“Go, sir, go; they care not for your iron,—iron cannot feel. They will not touch that! Have not your daughter’s life upon your soul!”
“Sibyll, Sibyll, forgive me! Come!” said Warner, conscience-stricken at the appeal.
Madge and the boy ran forwards; the old woman unbarred the garden-gate; Sibyll and her father went forth; the fields stretched before them calm and solitary; the boy leaped up, kissed Sibyll’s pale cheek, and then bounded across the grass, and vanished.
“Loiter not, Madge. Come!” cried Sibyll.
“Nay,” said the old woman, shrinking back, “they bear no grudge to me; I am too old to do aught but burthen ye. I will stay, and perchance save the house and the chattels, and poor master’s deft contrivance. Whist! thou knowest his heart would break if none were by to guard it.”