He pulled her to her feet; she hung unconscious over his arm; the house was crashing about them and the strengthening flames rippled and sang as they leaped upwards. With the strength of desperation he dragged her to the library window and there laid her down while he flung aside the encumbrances of his coat, sword and peruke.
The terrace was still clear though it glowed brightly in the light of the flames, and the garden was illumined from end to end.
Delia moaned and sat up; he helped her to her feet; she leaned heavily against him while he unfastened the long windows. With difficulty he got her across the terrace and down the gardens, and heard the mob as if it saw them; she was slipping into insensibility again; feebly she clung to him, impeding his progress, and when they reached the fountain of Hylas she fell forward heavily in his arms.
He looked down at her in a kind of cold fury. Behind him was his burning home; he saw before him a ruined life; he thought of Lady Stair—her work—all of it her work.
By the dead weight of her body he knew her unconscious; he let her slip to the grass and turned to face the burning mansion behind him.
The flames rose through the summer night magnificently terrible; the whole sky was alight with them; they blotted out the stars. And she, lying quiet enough at his feet now,—she had done it.
“My lord,” came a timid voice. “My lord.”
The servant who had remained came forward from the shadows of the trees.
“My lord,” he cried again, startled at his master’s appearance and the woman huddled on the grass.
The Earl stared at him vacantly.