The hands he grasped felt wet and cold, and in the misty choking gloom Scarlett could see that his father’s eyes were nearly closed, and that there was in them a fixed and glassy stare.
“He’s dying!” he groaned; “he’s dying!”
His son’s cry seemed to rouse Sir Godfrey to a knowledge of his danger, for his eyes opened wildly, and he gazed before him, and then struggled to rise, but sank back against his son’s arm.
“You have not gone!” he groaned. “Scarlett, my boy, escape!”
“I cannot leave you, father. Let me try and help you. If we could get to the upper windows!”
“And ask our enemy to take us prisoners! No, no; my poor old home is crumbling around me—where could I die better?”
“Oh, father!”
“But you, my boy, with all your young life before you! There is yet time. God bless you, Scar! Good-bye!”
He made a faint effort to thrust his son away, but Scarlett still held his hands, while the fire crackled and roared in the rooms on either side, and kept on narrowing the space they occupied, as the great smoke wreaths, pierced by ruddy tongues, rolled heavily overhead.
Scarlett set his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment, as a feeling of horror ran through him, and there before him, beyond the smoke of the burning woodwork, he saw in a instant the bright sunshiny paths of life inviting him on and on for a long career, such as youth may look forward to in its growing vigour; but he made a desperate effort to crush out the temptation, clinging frantically to his father’s hands as he groaned despairingly—