“The house is stone; we can keep the flames to one room if we work hard,” I said. A sailor stood by the door wiping the stained blade of his broadaxe, and I called on him to aid us.
A fresh company of sailors passed on the double, rifles trailing, their officer shouting encouragement, 378 And as we came in view of the semaphore, I saw the signal tower on fire from base to top.
The gray moorland was all flickering with flashes where the bulk of the insurgent infantry began firing in retreat; the marines’ fusillade broke out from Paradise village; rifle after rifle cracked along the river-bank. Suddenly the deep report of a cannon came echoing landward from the sea; a shell, with lighted fuse trailing sparks, flew over us with a rushing whistle and exploded on the moors.
All this I saw from the house where I stood with Speed and a sailor, buried in smoke, chopping out blazing woodwork, tearing the burning curtains from the windows. The marines fired steadily from the windows above us.
“They want the Red Terror!” laughed the sailors. “They shall have it!”
“Hunt them out! Hunt them out!” cried an officer, briskly. “Fire!” rang out a voice, and the volley broke crashing, followed by the clear, penetrating boatswain’s whistle sounding the assault.
Blackened, scorched, almost suffocated, I staggered back to the tea-room, where the Countess stood clasping Jacqueline, huddled in a blanket, and smoothing the child’s wet curls away from a face as white as death.
Together we carried her back through the smoking hallway, up the stairs to my bedroom, and laid her in the bed.
The child opened her eyes as we drew the blankets.
“Where is Speed?” she asked, dreamily.