She had no one to counsel, none to take her part; and she knelt down and sobbed bitterly as she thought of the mother who had been taken away so long ago.

Then rising from her knees, quite calm and peaceful at heart, she sat down in her sweet-scented old chamber waiting, for she told herself it was inevitable, and that time would soften her father's anger, and all be happiness once more.

"He feels it is for my welfare," she said, "but he does not know poor Gil."

The whispered mention of Gil's name sent a thrill through her, and, with a smile of hope and love upon her worn, pale face, she sat dreaming of him, and mentally praying that no mishap might accompany their flight.

At last, feeling flushed and hot, she drank from the jug of water which Janet had left unchanged.

There was a peculiar taste in it, but her thoughts were too much occupied to pay much attention, and, taking her seat by the window, she sat, watching the darkness coming on of this the last day in her old home.

How the old happy hours of the past came back to torture her with their recollections; and now she told herself it would have been better that she should have died young, in peace and innocency, ere she knew the bitter heart-grievings of the present. For in these last hours her breast was racked by contending emotions; the love of parent fought hard with the stronger, more engrossing love of the maiden for the man of her choice, but the latter won.

Agitated as she was, it seemed to her that she grew feverish and thirsty--a thirst she turned to the water-vessel more than once to assuage, but without effect; and at last, with a curious, excited sensation upon her, mingled with weariness, she went to the glass to find that her checks were flushed, and that there was a strange dilated look about her eyes, whose unusual lustre startled her.

"I have had too little sleep lately," she said, with a sad smile, as she thought of the long, restless nights she had passed; and at last she threw herself upon the bed, and closed her eyes, just as a tap was heard upon the panel of the door.

"Come in, Janet," she said, as she unclosed her eyes to gaze round at the confusion that reigned with half-packed garments, and upon a couch her wedding-dress, facing her like the flaccid shade of herself lying upon a bier.

There was something very weird in that dress, and it seemed to influence her with thoughts of death which made her shudder.

"I be come to try on the wedding robe again, mistress," said Janet. "I did alter those strings and that fastening, and now it will fit you well."

"That's kind of you, Janet," said Mace, drowsily. "Thank you for all you have done. You will think kindly of me when I am gone?"

"Why, of course, mistress. But, there, dear heart alive, don't talk like that. Why it be as if you was going to be buried. La! You ought to be as blithe as blithe."

"Should you be, Janet?" said Mace. "Oh, my head--my head, it burns--it burns!"

"La, mistress, yes; as joyous as a bird to wed with so handsome and courtly a man. Art ill, mistress?"

"Sleepy, Janet, sleepy."

"There, then, let's get on the dress, and see how you look, and then you shall have a long sleep, and I'll see that no one disturbs you."

"No, no," said Mace, hoarsely. "I must not sleep, child--I will not sleep. Try on the dress and go away. I shall sit by the open window."

"La, mistress, thou'lt get the ager-shakes that come off the Pool. I wouldn't sit by the open window to-night. Come, get up, dear, and let me take off your gown. I'll unlace it, and now we'll have on the beautiful white robe. Lovely, lovely!"

And again, "Lovely, lovely!"

And then, "How beautiful you look!"

And amidst it all strange reelings of the brain, her head throbbing and wild imaginings rushing through her mind. She was married and clasped in her lover's arms, and his kisses were showered on her lips, her veins tingled, a strange thrill ran through her nerves, but his kisses burned her face, her eyes, her head. And now it was not Gil who clasped her in the ecstasy of love, but Sir Mark, and, in place of burning passion, she froze, her heart seemed to stand still, and she was numbed with horror as he approached his lips to hers. Why did he laugh so with such a strange, silent, ghastly laugh? Why did he press her so tightly to his breast? His arms hurt her, his breast was bony, and his laugh was lifeless. It was a frightful grin, and she could not tear herself away.

It was not Sir Mark; it was a hideous skeleton, and she made a supreme effort to rid herself of the terrible vision that clasped her to its breast.

At last it was gone, and she was dressed in her bridal robe. She was feverish and excited, and that was a kind of nightmare dream. There she was, then, before the big swing mirror, gay in satin and lace, and once more the exclamations of pleasure fell upon her ears.

"How lovely! how lovely!" And again, "How beautiful you look!" The reflection in the mirror died away, for her eyes closed. She could not bear to look upon it longer, and, now that her eyes were shut, once more came the phantoms of her troubled, reeling brain. Gil, Sir Mark, the hideous shape of death, all had her clasped in their arms in turn. She struggled in spirit, but her body was motionless; the brain was in full action, but muscle and nerve were inert. She could only lie there and suffer tortures so horrible that she felt that if they lasted she must go mad.

Then again she was gazing at herself in the great mirror, gay with satin and lace, and once more there was the round of horrors.

How long was it to last?

There was a lucid moment when she knew that she was seriously ill. Some terrible ailment had seized her, and then came the recollection of the water like a flash through her reeling brain.

Was it poison?

"How beautiful! It is lovely, lovely, lovely!" and there was the vision again of the satin gown.

"I must be going mad," she thought; "but Janet must not see. I will be firm and wait. I must send her away soon. Let me see," she thought.

"Gil will be here at midnight. I am not too ill to go with him, and, when once away in peace, I shall soon be well. How absurd to think of poison. How beautiful I look. This fever seems to have given me my colour once again. Poor fool! Why should I masquerade like this, when I am never to wear these things? It is time I put them off and sent her away. My poor head, my poor head! how it burns and throbs and reels with pain."

Then again, the wedding with Gil, and his hot kisses burning her face.

No, it was Sir Mark; and then again the chilly horror of being seized by those arms and pressed nearer, nearer, to that hideous framework of ghastly bones, while the cold grinning teeth rested against her lips, and in place of kisses began to tear and rend her. Now it was her fair young cheek, now her soft bosom; and at every contact it was the burning pain of ice that froze with a touch like heated iron. She strove to struggle, to call for help, but it was in vain. The hideous teeth were now meeting in her forehead, and a pang of agony ran through her brain.

"Gil, Gil, help me, help!" she tried to say; and then there was the clash of arms, the firing of guns, the shouts of contending men--cries, oaths, shrieks, wails. What was it? Was she really mad? Had her sufferings robbed her of reason, or was she striving to rush from the room down the broad old staircase when that hideous rush of fire, and that crash of thunder, came to tear her away? Was it madness, a dream, or was it--. Her reeling senses seemed to leave her as she asked herself the final question, when she was stricken down, even as her lips uttered the question.

Was it death?

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

HOW GIL BROUGHT THE BRIDE FROM THE BURNING HOUSE.

For a few moments Gil's men and the followers of Sir Mark stood appalled by the effects of the explosion. Fully one-half had been prostrated by the terrible blast that had swept the beautiful old garden, cutting down tree and shrub as level as if with a knife. Some of the men lay groaning where they had been cast, burned, wounded, and disfigured; while those who were uninjured, of whichever side, seemed as if by mutual consent to consider their petty strife at an end in the face of so awful a catastrophe, and, sheathing their swords, stood looking at the ruined house before them, confused and unmanned by the shock.

For to a man the explosion had so shaken them that a curious feeling of helplessness had succeeded to the energy they had displayed, and no one moved even to render assistance to the wounded.

Suddenly a loud voice shouted--

"Run, my lads, run! There will be another explosion directly. It is a plot to blow up the place."

This seemed to break the spell, and there was a rush of feet towards the closed bridge, when the founder's voice arose.

"No, no," he cried; "there can be no other explosion. It was my store; I thought it safe; the powder has all--"

He stopped speaking, and reeled and nearly fell to the earth, for he had received a blow from a falling beam; but he recovered himself sufficiently to point towards the house in an appealing way that no one understood.

"Halt there!" cried Sir Mark, who now rose to his feet, from where he had been thrown, "follow me some of you, quick, before it is too late."

He might well add these last words, for, as the smoke rose like a heavy pall above the ruined house, it could be seen that, with the exception of a couple of the gables near where they stood, the place was shattered and nearly razed to the ground. There was a huge hole here, another cavernous rent there, and, piled above them, beams and rafters, blackened, smoking, and dotted with glowing embers, which began to sparkle as the portion of the house now standing burned furiously.

There was no need for light, for wood had entered largely into the construction of the building, and the powder seemed to have prepared everything to burn. With a rush great tongues of fire leaped from the embayment of the fine old parlour, whose diamond panes flew crackling out, while the lead in which they were set trickled down in a silvery stream. The whole of the parlour glowed in a few seconds like a furnace, and directly after the fire sprang forth from the two rooms above, and then again from the little window in the pointed gable, which was soon being licked from gutter to the copper vane on its summit by the orange and golden flames.

The rooms on either side rapidly followed, and soon the two gables that had remained after the explosion seemed wrapped in fire, which lit up the unscathed trees, and turned the lake as if into a pool of blood.

As Sir Mark sprang forward, a dozen men ran to his side--Gil's men, every one of them, for his own stood aloof; but as they went close up a rush of flame and smoke drove them back, scathing and scorching them so that it was impossible to face it.

"A ladder--a ladder--fetch a ladder!" cried Sir Mark.