Fred did not finish his sentence. “That they set fire to the Hall? No; Sir Godfrey was too proud of his old home to destroy it.”
“I did not mean that,” said Fred, hoarsely; “I meant—”
“Wounded—killed?” Fred bowed his head. He could not speak, for there was a horrible idea tugging at his brain, one which he could not shake off.
“Wounded? Perhaps. Killed? Heaven forbid! No; I hope and believe that they fought to the last, and then escaped, or else, far more likely, they are—”
He stopped short, for the idea that troubled Fred had now been communicated to him, and he drew in his breath with a look of horror. Then, as if unable to control himself, he glanced sharply at the burning building, while, giddy and weak with emotion, Fred walked slowly back, to make his way to his father, who met him and took his arm.
“Have you heard any news of them?” said the colonel, hoarsely.
“No, father,” half whispered Fred; and he repeated the Cavalier’s words.
Colonel Forrester glanced at the burning Hall, nearly every portion of which had now been seized upon by the flames, and he drew a deep hissing breath, as he whispered to himself—
“No, no; impossible! They must have escaped. Fred,” he said aloud, “they will not tell us if we ask—it is quite natural; so we are quite in the dark as to how many the defenders were. There were none killed, and I find that the wounded were all carried out. Sir Godfrey and his son must have escaped, or if not, they will be brought in by some of the outposts.”
Fred made no answer; he could not speak, for a terrible picture was before his eyes—that of Sir Godfrey, wounded to the death, unable to stir, and Scarlett trying to bear him out to safety, but only to be overtaken and beaten down by the flames.