There was no answer, and he moved on to the next door, calling again softly, while all the spoilers seemed absorbed in the fire and the combat. “Master Michael! ’Tis I, Ambrose!”
“Here, my son,” cautiously answered a voice he knew for Lucas Hansen’s.
“Oh, master! master!” was his low, heart-stricken cry, as by the leaping light of a flame he saw the pale face of the old printer, who drew him in.
“Yea! ’tis ruin, my son,” said Lucas. “And would that that were the worst.”
The light flashed and flickered through the broken window so that Ambrose saw that the hangings had been torn down and everything wrecked, and a low sound as of stifled weeping directed his eyes to a corner where Aldonza sat with her father’s head on her lap. “Lives he? Is he greatly hurt?” asked Ambrose, awe-stricken.
“The life is yet in him, but I fear me greatly it is passing fast,” said Lucas, in a low voice. “One of those lads smote him on the back with a club, and struck him down at the poor maid’s feet, nor hath he moved since. It was that one young Headley is fighting with,” he added.
“Bates! ah! Would that we had come sooner! What! more of this work—”
For just then a tremendous outcry broke forth, and there was a rush and panic among those who had been leaping round the fire just before. “The guard!—the King’s men!” was the sound they presently distinguished. They could hear rough abusive voices, shrieks and trampling of feet. A few seconds more and all was still, only the fire remained, and in the stillness the suppressed sobs and moans of Aldonza were heard.
“A light! Fetch a light from the fire!” said Lucas.
Ambrose ran out. The flame was lessening, but he could see the dark bindings, and the blackened pages of the books he loved so well. A corner of a page of St. Augustine’s Confessions was turned towards him and lay on a singed fragment of Aldonza’s embroidered curtain, while a little red flame was licking the spiral folds of the screw, trying, as it were, to gather energy to do more than blacken it. Ambrose could have wept over it at any other moment, but now he could only catch up a brand—it was the leg of his master’s carved chair—and run back with it. Lucas ventured to light a lamp, and they could then see the old man’s face pale, but calm and still, with his long white beard flowing over his breast. There was no blood, no look of pain, only a set look about the eyes; and Aldonza cried “Oh, father, thou art better! Speak to me! Let Master Lucas lift thee up!”