“Escape, Scarlett. I am spent,” said Sir Godfrey, faintly.
“What! and leave you, father?” cried Scarlett, excitedly.
“Yes. You cannot get away here for the fire. Run upstairs, my boy, quick—leap from one of the windows.”
“If you will come with me, father,” said Scarlett.
“No, no, my boy; I am helpless. Make haste. The fire—for Heaven’s sake, make haste!”
The flames and their accompanying suffocating fumes advanced so fast that for the moment the terrible peril unnerved Scarlett. The natural inclination was to flee, and he received an additional impulse from his father’s words, which in their tone of urgent command made him dash half-way up the broad staircase before he checked himself, turned sharply, with one bound leaped down again to the floor, and ran to Sir Godfrey’s side.
“Father, I can’t leave you to be burned to death,” he cried. “It is too horrible.”
“Horrible? Yes,” panted the wounded man; “but I can do nothing, my boy; and you—you are so young. The poor old Hall—the poor old Hall!”
For a few moments Scarlett knelt beside his father, suffocating in the gathering smoke, and looking about wildly for a way of escape, but finding none; for the defenders had taken such precautions to keep the enemy out, that in this time of peril, they had kept themselves in. Even now Scarlett felt that, by making a bold rush through the fire and smoke gathering in force to right and left, he might escape, singed and scorched, perhaps, but with life. To attempt this, however, with a wounded man, was impossible; and, with the strong desire for life thrilling every fibre, he uttered a despairing groan.
As the mournful sound escaped his lips, he caught tightly hold of his father’s hands, to cling to them as if seeking strength, and asking him to keep his weak nature from repeating its former act and taking refuge in so cowardly a flight.