There was no reply, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she ran over the broken fragments of stone and wood lying about, to the arched door, and stepped in amidst the blinding smoke and reeking steam.
“Stop! oh, stop,” cried Sir Mark. “Good heavens, men, she will lose her life.”
Roused by his words, a couple of the men ran after the excited girl, but only reached the door as the founder came out looking blackened and half stunned, leaning upon his daughter’s arm.
“I can’t see any one there,” he cried, as soon as he was out, and he began looking round at his men. “Are you all here, my lads?”
The men gazed at one another as if for the first time it had occurred to them that they ought to count their number, and at last, as Master Peasegood repeated the question, out of breath with his exertions to get there, some one exclaimed:
“We be all here, Master.”
“Then help me to a flagon of ale, Mace,” cried the founder.
“But father, dear, you are hurt; you are burned. Quick, some one, help get him to the house.”
“Nay, nay, child, I’m not much hurt, and, as no one else is, loose my arm. Where’s that Tom Croftly?”
“Here I be, master,” said a gruff voice, and a grim, half-naked man, with the chest of a giant, came trembling forward, wiping the reek and sweat from his brow.