Let no man think that the past is done with, though he sever it as he will. The life from which he has cut himself off in disgust has none the less cast the tendrils of custom about his heart, which shoot and bud when he least expects it. Vaughan stood in the doorway of the stable while the men bridled. He viewed the long line of tossing heads, and the smoky lanthorns fixed to the stall-posts; he sniffed the old familiar smell of “Stables.” And he felt his heart leap to the past. Ay, even as it leapt a few minutes later, when he rode down College Green, now in darkness, now in glare, and heard beside him the familiar clank of spur and scabbard, the rattle of the bridle-chains, and the tramp of the shod hoofs. On the men’s left, as they descended the slope at a walk, the tall houses stood up in bright light; below them on the right the Float gleamed darkly; above them, the mist glowed red. Wild hurrahing and an indescribable babel of shouts, mingled with the rushing roar of the flames, rose from the Square. When the troop rode into it with the first dawn, they saw that two whole sides—with the exception of a pair of houses—were burnt or burning. In addition a monster warehouse was on fire in the rear, a menace to every building to windward of it. The Colonel, with Flixton attending him, fell in on the flank, as the troop entered the Square. But apparently—since he gave no orders—he did not share the tingling indignation which Vaughan experienced as he viewed the scene. A few persons were still engaged in removing their goods from houses on the south side; but save for these, the decent and respectable had long since fled the place, and left it a prey to all that was most vile and dangerous in the population of a rough seaport. The rabble, left to themselves, and constantly recruited as the news flew abroad, had cast off the fear of reprisals, and believed that at last the city was their own. Vaughan saw that if the dragoons were to act with effect they must act at once. Nor was he alone in this opinion. The troop had not ridden far into the open before he was shocked, as well as astonished, by the appearance of Sir Robert Vermuyden, who stumbled across the Square towards them. He was bareheaded—for in an encounter with a prowler who had approached too near he had lost his hat; he was without his cloak, though the morning was cold. His face, too, unshorn and haggard, added to the tragedy of his appearance; yet in a sense he was himself, and he tried to steady his voice, as, unaware of Vaughan’s presence, he accosted the nearest trooper. “Who is in command, my man?” he said. Flixton, who had also recognised him, thrust his horse forward. “Good Heavens, Sir Robert!” he cried. “What are you doing here? And in this state?” “Never mind me,” the Baronet replied. “Are you in command?” Colonel Brereton had halted his men. He came forward. “No, Sir Robert,” he said. “I am. And very sorry to see you in this plight.”