Reuben Styles alone seemed to retain wisdom for ordering anything. He knew Abdil was the perpetrator, and he kept his eye upon that wing of the house, and soon saw the desperate fellow in wild and mad despair climbing over the roof, and descending by the spouts from one parapet to another. He had cut his leg severely with some broken glass, and even in the fire, the villain might be seen with bloody clothes trying to escape, and he did descend. So much broken up with the woe were the people, that those who saw him pitied him, and called to him to show him how to escape, none knowing, save the poor fool, that he was the cause of the catastrophe. Hundreds were employed in breaking the ice and throwing water. Numbers kept arriving, but all--all in vain. Reuben Styles seemed to assume a sudden command--men obeyed him. It was he who let the bloodhound loose. It was he who, when the ruin was complete, which it was by two o'clock that dreadful night--it was he who exclaimed, when he heard that his master was dead, and the rest of his family safe--it was he who exclaimed to the people-- 'Let us pursue the incendiary. I know who he is. Dead or alive let us bring him to Freston Tower. Follow me the stoutest of you all. Follow me as many as dare. Bring Saracen along with you!' The blood-hound was not long before he was on the scent for the blood of Abdil Foley had dropped upon the snow across the moat, and when Reuben took up a portion with the snow, and rubbed it on the nose of Saracen, and tracked him on the slot, the brave dog, with one lift of his head, and a solemn, deep-toned note of recognition, pursued the villain, who, conscience-smitten, fled from the terror of his deeds. CHAPTER LIII. THE PURSUIT. But when did the wicked escape? So will a man's sins follow him, and find him out at last, be they what they may. And whoever has sinned against love, whoever has injured a neighbor, whoever has been vindictive, cruel, unfeeling, or revengeful, the bloodhound of his own conscience will pursue him, and superstition, under the garb of religion, can never more shield him beneath her altars. Abdil fled to his home. His wife, his sons, his neighbors were all gone to lend a hand, if possible, to quench his fiery work. He had been seen. He must be known. He must be taken. He could not stay there. What must he do? The very solitude of his cottage, and the distant noise of the people, all conspired against him, and the wretched man exclaimed-- 'O Father Duncan! O Lady Alice! now--now--now give me absolution. I must fly to you. You must hide me in the sanctuary of your church. You must console me, or my fiery brain will burn more furiously than De Freston's Hall.' The wretched man rested not a moment, save to drink one bitter draught of liquor which he had in his house, and then fled for Goldwell, or Cold Hall.