“It is impossible! My poor girl! What shall I do?” moaned Sir Mark.
Then to the men nearest he shouted, his voice sounding shrill and strange amidst the roar and flutter of the flames, “There is a lady in yonder—a hundred golden pounds to the man who fetches her out.”
There was a murmur amongst the little crowd, but no one stirred, and he repeated his offer.
“Are you men to stand there and see her burned to death?” he cried. “Two hundred pounds to the man who saves Mistress Mace Cobbe.”
“Damn your two hundred pound,” cried a hoarse voice, as a great gaunt blackened figure crawled into the glow. “Up the ladder, my lads, there be two women there.”
“Old Wat,” cried the men, in a loud chorus of excitement, as the weird looking figure stretched out its hands, and seemed to grope blindly towards the ladder, but rolled down with a groan, utterly unable to make the attempt, having received some injury to the hip.
“Is there no man here who will try to save the helpless women?” cried Sir Mark. “That’s right, my brave lad,” he said, as one of Gil’s men took a hatchet from his belt and ran up the burning ladder.
He seemed to beat back the flames with his hands, and bravely climbed in at the window, a roar of cheers following him, as he regularly leaped into the burning room. Then there was a shower of sparks, a rush of flame, and, to the horror of all present, the brave fellow was seen to literally roll out of the parlour casement, blackened and burned, having fallen at once through the floor to the room below.
“No one can be there and live,” he gasped. “Water, boys, water! I am burning: throw me in,” he shrieked; and one of his companions deluged him with the contents of a bucket.
“It is all over. How horrible—how horrible!” groaned Sir Mark. “Quick lads, water, dash it in. Who is that?”