What made his fate more bitter was his belief that there had been a clever turning against him of the tables; he thought the ruffians had been tampered with by Chip after Carson had hired them, and that this was done deliberately by them, for pay. So he heaped his curses on Chip as well as on Carson and the two stupid fools.
Then came the fire, and the terror it conveyed to the occupant of the upper room.
He heard the quarreling below, then the crashing of the overturned table and the yells of the men when they tried to stay the fire. He heard them throw the door open and run away like the cowards they were, forgetful of him and of his fate.
The Duke screamed with fear when he heard them go.
For a moment the terror of his situation almost overcame him; he felt sick and faint, his heart pounded up until it seemed almost in his throat; a panicky fear clouded his mind.
This passed. There was some courageous fiber in the Duke. He had been spoiled in his training; he was always made to think he was finer and better than any one else, was always petted and flattered, and constantly treated by servants and even friends as if he were a superior being. If there had not been some good stuff in the Duke, he would have been far worse than he was at present.
As soon as he could control his jumping nerves, the Duke tried again to get free of the cords that held his wrists; but he could not do it. He could not break the cords, and struggling only drew the knots tighter.
Rolling over against the door, he drew up his legs and began to dash his heels against the panels, trying to break through.
The fire was roaring so that he could hear it plainly when he was not making too much noise, and the smoke that had begun to creep through the rooms reached him.
“Help!” he screamed, as he hammered with his heels against the door. “Help! Help!”