Clash of Arms: A Romance

by John Bloundelle-Burton

And so, feeling their way inch by inch, Clemence first, with Andrew following, he bearing Marion in his arms, and having at the same time to keep touch with the former and also to carry his drawn sword--since he knew not if, even now, De Bois-Vallée might not be lurking somewhere close by in that dark garret, ready to thrust his own weapon through him, or, indeed, through all of them--they reached shortly the ladder that led to the roof. And, then, a few moments more and they had emerged on to the leads.

The rain, that had been falling at intervals (though sometimes it had been clear moonlight) since the wintry sun had set amidst a bank of deep blood-coloured clouds, backed up and surrounded by still deeper leaden ones, had ceased now--up from the south-west, as they gained the roof, there blew a soft, warm breeze that was as the breath of heaven to them after the reeking interior from which they had escaped. Yet--escaped for how long, Andrew and Clemence wondered inwardly? For how long? How long would it be ere that portion of the house on which they stood might be alight, and, thus destroyed, engulf them below? Below, where it was easy enough to see that already the house was in flames--and whence there reached their nostrils the fumes of smoke. Already, too, by gazing over the parapet Andrew could see the red tongues of fire shooting out from windows, and volumes of dun-coloured smoke emerging. Could hear, also, those windows bursting and the sound of rent glass as it fell on the stones of the courtyard.

Heard, too, and saw other things ere an hour had elapsed--an hour in which Clemence had sat on the ladder giving to the roof, with Marion lying in her arms. For, at the end of that hour, a terrible roar and rending sound reached his ears from beneath, and, looking once more over the parapet, he saw the left side of the house rent open; knew that a portion of one of the wings had fallen inwards. The north wing, and that the one which joined the part of the house above which they all were.

[CHAPTER XXIX.]

THE LAST CHANCE

Another hour passed--the dawn was close at hand--and the ruin of the greater part of the fabric was almost accomplished. For that was what Andrew perceived now, as still he kept his vigil above and listened still to the cries of those below, who were all by this time outside in the courtyard and the fringe of the copse, revelling in their handiwork and the accomplishment of their long-thirsted-for vengeance.

Beneath him the fire still raged and burned, though by God's mercy it had even now left untouched that side of the building on which they were--the side that was nearest to the slope of the mountain from which he had originally crossed: untouched at least at present! Therefore, he knew that for some time they were safe; below where they stood there was still the floor of more or less solid masonry, then the other floor from which they had escaped--the one that was beneath the leads on which they were. In the front, also, the fire had not yet got a hold, it was on the two sides that its fury seemed to have been most expended. Of them, the north wing had already fallen in, as has been said; the south one looked as though it would do so at any moment. And, gazing at the gap made by that destroyed on the other side, Andrew could not but shudder, for had it so happened that they had been there when it gave way, had it so happened that the way to the leads had lain through the north wing, they would have gone with it in its fall, have all been lying crushed to death beneath the stonework and woodwork which had been hurled into the great hall.

Yet, even as he looked across the gap left by that fallen wing, as he peered down into the now blocked-up hall, so blocked up, indeed, that the débris of the north side rose almost level with the top floors of the sides still standing, he saw that here was something which would prevent the total annihilation of the house, and deprive the Lorrainers of their vengeance in its entirety; would also prevent the whole of the building from being razed to the ground.

Something, too, that would, perhaps, save those who were upon the roof, render it unlikely that that roof should sink beneath them, and, in so sinking, carry them with it to destruction.

He saw that, as the northern side had crashed in, the lower, or stone, portion had fallen upon the mass of burning matter, and, thereby, had beaten out much of the fire, which now only smouldered beneath the masonry and wreckage of that lower portion, which, in its turn, had received above it the wooden part. The flames from below--even if not totally extinguished--could never, therefore, reach the woodwork above; it was as likely as not that, soon, they would be entirely pressed out by the weight. If, therefore, the foundations of that portion of the house over which they now stood were not injured, if that wing did not fall in, they were saved. The fire would die out, and, when it had done so, surely some means of descending to earth again could be found, even though there were now no stairs left.