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Hirl, the Hunchback.
21
fore he reached it. He retreated. The roof
blazed and trembled over his head. Looking
up, he could see the glowing rafters and the
Gry tiles burning like tinder. The stairs were
by this time on fire. Jaffer had done his
work thoroughly. Somerton feared to de-
acend them lest the light drapery of Miss
Redmond should be seized upon by the
flames, and the catastrephe hastened. He
drew his helpless burden to a window at the
end of a corridor, To his consternation, it
wea latticed with stout oaken bars; it had
been thus secured to repel enemies. He tried
to force off one of the bars, but it obstinately
defied his strength. He plunged his hand
through the lattice and broke a pane of glass.
. Fresh air rushed in and revived the young
woman.
‘We shall not part company,” murmured
Somerton. “ I shall perish with the woman I
love.”
The recollection of her denial of s palpa-
ble fact, flashed like lightning through his
brain. Tne blinding, stifling smoke; the
blazing roof; the darting flames, ceuld not
make him forget the falseiiood.
-“ Why should this fair temple be sullied
with a lie?” were words that involuntarily es-
eaped his lips. ‘
“I am true! I +m true!” she eaid, in a
faint and scarcely articulate voice.
“Name it not inthis fearful hour, We are
doomed! It is written that we shall die to-
gether; the solemn Cecretal is laid away with
the records in the archives of fate. It docs
not thrill me with anguish and despair, for I
thal] go hence with an angel, who will lead
me to the door of Paradise.”
“Forbear ! forbear!” implored the young
girl, in a pity-moving ‘voice. ‘There is a
mistake—a fatal, fatal mistake! I am nct—I
am not—”
The roof creaked and trembled ; the wind,
rushing through the wide rents the fire had
made, drove shafts of flame egainst Somertcn
and the girl. He ecreened her with his per-
son, and his garments withered in the intense
heat. He scarcely felt pain; the inspirstion
of love raised him above suffering.
ife,” he eaid, ‘is not in myself; it is
in thee. Let the flemes rege; I feel them
not ; I feel only thee. Sccrch so much as
thy emaitest finger, and my ficeh shall suffer.”
“ We are dying!” she murmured. “ You
must not die inancrror. I am—”
“ Error?” interrupted Scmerten. ‘ Tlove
thee! How can there be en error? Itisa
sudden passion, but deep, decp, and change-
Jess 1”
She attempted to raiee bereelf to rep)
but the heat and emoke conquered her will,
and put out the sweet candle of ber ccneciovs-
ness. Whatever the thovght that egitated
her, it w:e likely to perish unexpreeeed.
. Komerton was exdcwid with a strange te-
” xacity of life. His wounds no longer treubled
him. The soul within was stronger than ficeh
aud fire. He treathed in theemoke where
another would have died or sunk inscnsible,
to be canght up by the fiemcs ard devoured.
He tore ctf his ecat and wrapped it about the
person of Miss Redmend. ‘He teat back the
Bre with h's hands. He fought the famirg
dragon alone, and for her. Every moment
he expected the erach of the quivcring roof.
Re placed hig mouth to the lattice and shout-
ed. An iron band grasped his throat; he
writhed, struggled, and with the last instinct
of protection for bis beloved, threw himself
upon her person. He floated upon acca of
fire, and was tosse? 40 and fro on the hot bil-
lows. 3 —
There were hiscied steps; the form of
Deering, the spy, seemed to plunge into the
fiery clement and bear him away. Yes, it
was Deering! That thought was strongly
defined. The man was invulnerable ; he part-
ed the blazing sea with his arms as he had
parted the waters of the Santee. He tried to
articulate the mame of his companion, and to
break from his arms. Then came darkness—
then black phantasics then rest—then a gasp-
ing, fluttering, fluctuating sense of existence.
@ first object he saw was the swordmaker,
“ Where is she 2” he cried.
“Who?” demanded the swordmaker, hoarse-
TeeMias Redmond! Judith — Judith!” an-
swered Somerton, hurriedly.
“ Was she in the building ?” asked Hirl, in
s gasping voies.
“You, dotasdi—wes. This is dreadfall'”
The colonel arose to his feet.
“Where are you going?” asked Hirl, de-
taining him by the arm.
“To perish with her!” he replied, with de-
termination.
“Have I lived and hoped for this?” ex-
elaimed the swordmaker. “The roof has fall-
en. Too late—too lata to eave her!”
“Then I will cast myself into the burning
pile. I swear to you that I will not survive
er |”
“Omisery! O torture!” muttered the old
man, bending lower and lower beneath the
weight on his back and the heaviness of his
soul. “ Perhaps,” he stammered, “ you—you
loved her?”
“IT did, old man! Where is he who saved
me? Bring the villain hither. The wretch!
to take me and leave her!” 7
“ Were you together?” asked Hirl.
“ Together, old man! What power on earth
sould part me from her in such a moment?
I shielded her from the flames ; I covered her
with my garments and my person; I battled
the fire with my naked hands. Speak, dotard,
speak! Who saved me? I will kill him for
his kindness !”
The swordmaker staggered to a tree, and
supporting himself by the trunk, seemed to
weep. He raised his head presently, and an-
swered ;
“A strange man dashed through the smoke
and flame, and saved your life at the risk of
his own. -He came forth scathed and blistered
by the fire!”
“His name—his name?”
“T noticed not his face,” said Hirl.
“A singular conceit crossed my brain; I
thought it was Deering, the spy.”
“ Why should he wish to save an enemy?”
queried the hunchback.
“That is what perplexes me. Alas, fair
Judith! Old man,-you know not how this
mournful calamity affects me.”
“Peace |” cried Hirl. “Think yours will
be the only heart wrung by this grief? There
may be others who love her better.”
“No, no! I loved her at our first meet
in; 7
“At your first meeting!” muttered the
swordmaker.
“When she came to gain admission to the
PY Did you tell your love?”
The old man did not speak as usual. His
voice was less ehrill, less in control.
“It concerns ie not, good man. -I have
uttered many wild things since the sun went
down. I scarcely know what I have said.”
“ And she ?”
“She? She isa saint!”
“True, true! But one saved, and that not
Judith. But stay! stay! there may be hope
et.”
With these words the swordmaker darted
away toward that part of the field where the
contlict could etill be heard, though gradually
receding, leaving Somerton alone.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHICH SOLVES A CERTAIN MYSTERY.
Somerton was still in an exposed position.
Occasionally a horseman crossed the space
between him and the burning mansion, whose
red coat sufficiently indicated to which party
he belonged. However deep the colonel’s sor-
row, it did not overcome his instinctive dread
of captivity, or extinguish his inherent love of
liberty. He moved into the bushes behind
him, es much to avoid the sight of the tot-
tering walls of Redmond’s house, as the too
near approach of an enemy. He saw, a few
yards distant, a negro hut, which, sheltered
by trees, had escaped the general destruction.
He hastened toward it, for he longed to be
alone, where he could abandon himself for a
time to those emotions that askel indulgence.
The door was open; he went in, and beheld
a spectacle that more than surprised him—
that for a moment caught away his breath
and volition. The fair girl who had shared
his danger—the terrible peril of that night—
was reclining upon 4 rude seat, supported by
Goody Grindle.
Somerton clung, gasping, to the log-wall,
by no means certain that he was not the sub-
ject of a tantalizing dream.
‘QO Misa Redmond!” he exclaimed, when
he could master his voice. ‘Is this indeed
real? It is too, too much joy!”
He staggered forward and took her hand.
-| Hirt, ‘* Natur’ put it there, and I've got to”
“Yes, it is I I am saved! But you.-I
have suffered for you, thinking you lost. My
friend, through what ascene we Bave assed!
she answered, in tones so hurried and trema-
lous as to be scarcely intelligible.
“T had sworn not to outlive you; I eame
here to weep for you, and to die! But God
gives me the cup of Joy, and His hand draws
me bach from the gulf of Despair. O Ju
dith! Judith!”
“That name again!” murmured Miss Red-
mond.
“Pardon, pardon the familiarity! M.
gladness is such that I cannot restrain myself {
to the unmeaning conventionalities of life,”
replied Somerton, sinking at her feet through
weakness and emotion.
“He faints !—how fearfully he is burned!
And for me—for me, whom he mistakes—for
for me, who am unworthy.”
The swordmaker stood at the door, but Som-
erton did not see him,
“ Hoity toity!—stuff and nonsense! Thers's
other things to be thought of. The British
ers are up and doin’, and bagonets and butch-
ery pervails through the land. Barns are
afire, housen’are burnin’, women and chil.
dren are flyin’ and cryin’, the Continentalers
are in full run, and Liberty trembles in the
balance! There’s good lade and true dying
on the field, with neither mother, wife, nor
sweetheart to close their eyes. Lord! Lord!
what a world it is! The wheels o’ time are
rollin’ and rollin’ us, and we shall soon be
clods o’ the valley.”
“Your garments are charred, your hands
blistered, your arms blackened and wounded
in your unequal conflict with the fire!” cried
the young woman. “O good aunt,” she
added, “‘here is work for you. Hasten to as- -
sist him.”
“Dear goodness! how hard you look at
each other! I do believe there’s been shilly-
shallyin’ and love-makin’ atween you two—
even when the wheels o’ time were revolvin’ you
away, as it were, y fire. What puts sich no-
tions into young folks’ heads, and makes ’em’
forgit that they’re born to die, that life’s on-
sartin and death sartin, and that the subluna-
rys and temporals are transitor; and fadin’,
and don’t last long, spin ’em out as you Will? ——~~mmud
Lawful goodness! what a snarl we're int!
Here we be mixed-up with guns, pistils,
swords, and bagonets, hosses and riders
chargin’, and fightin’, and cuttin’, and worry-
in’, carnage and bloodshed, burnin’ huts,
housen, and barns, destruction o’ property,
love, and liberty.”
“Jes so, Goody Grindle—jes so,” said the
swordmaker, from whose features all traces of
emotion had vanished. ‘ As I’ve said afore,
if I's on’y younger, and had less responsibil-
ity on my shoulders—”
“Call things by their right names, Mr,
What's-your-name} for there a’n't an artom
o’ sense in calling a hump a responsibility,”
interrupted Goody Grindle, sharply.
“ Don't make sport of my infarmity,” piped
bear it.”
“If Natur’ put it there, I must say, that
she was woundedly put to it for something te
do. If the jade ad played sich a trick on
me, I'd jist let Somerton’s dragoons hack at
it awhile with their sabres. But we a'n't all
alike. Some has the gift o’ beauty, and some
are flung together most any way, as if ently
for temporary use, Dear me! I’can hear the
firin’ yet. How do you feel now, child?
What's goin’ to become of us, the Lord only
knows! Everything falls on me, and allers
did. There's nobody to do nor say anythin’
but my bleesed self. Well, colonel, you are
burned, I do declare. Why, for goodness,
didn't you go out when you found the house
was afire?, Jaffer there? Arunaway! He
hasn't forgot that euttin’-up yet; and it'll be
a long while afore he does. He'sa vessel o°
wrath ; and I don’t care how soon he finds
himself among the clods. I vow I don't know
what I shall do for ’intment! Not a salve
nor a doetor-stuff of any kind can I Jay handa
on.”
‘ “Trouble not yourself, good Miss Grindle.”
said Somerton. “Give me but some eoarse
garment to put on, and J shall do well enough.”
Dame Grindle, in a trice, and without any
affectation of delicacy, slipped off s flannel
petticoat and, before the colone] had divined
er purpose, it was thrown over his head, and
she was tying the stout atrings close up unday
his arms, e effect of this novel costume