“They make honourable war,” said Northmour. “They are all gentlemen and soldiers. For the credit of the thing, I wish we could change sides—you and I, Frank, and you too, Missy, my darling—and leave that being on the bed to some one else. Tut! Don’t look shocked! We are all going post to what they call eternity, and may as well be above-board while there’s time. As far as I’m concerned, if I could first strangle Huddlestone and then get Clara in my arms, I could die with some pride and satisfaction. And as it is, by God, I’ll have a kiss!”
Before I could do anything to interfere, he had rudely embraced and repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. Next moment I had pulled him away with fury, and flung him heavily against the wall. He laughed loud and long, and I feared his wits had given way under the strain; for even in the best of days he had been a sparing and a quiet laugher.
“Now, Frank,” said he, when his mirth was somewhat appeased, “it’s your turn. Here’s my hand. Good-bye; farewell!” Then, seeing me stand rigid and indignant, and holding Clara to my side—“Man!” he broke out, “are you angry? Did you think we were going to die with all the airs and graces of society? I took a kiss; I’m glad I had it; and now you can take another if you like, and square accounts.”
I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I did not seek to dissemble.
“As you please,” said he. “You’ve been a prig in life; a prig you’ll die.”
And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle over his knee, and amused himself with snapping the lock; but I could see that his ebullition of light spirits (the only one I ever knew him to display) had already come to an end, and was succeeded by a sullen, scowling humour.
All this time our assailants might have been entering the house, and we been none the wiser; we had in truth almost forgotten the danger that so imminently overhung our days. But just then Mr. Huddlestone uttered a cry, and leaped from the bed.
I asked him what was wrong.
“Fire!” he cried. “They have set the house on fire!”
Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he and I ran through the door of communication with the study. The room was illuminated by a red and angry light. Almost at the moment of our entrance, a tower of flame arose in front of the window, and, with a tingling report, a pane fell inwards on the carpet. They had set fire to the lean-to outhouse, where Northmour used to nurse his negatives.