Suddenly Wat Kilby raised himself up on his knees, supporting his injured body with one hand, and lifting the other to wave above his head. "His father's son!" he yelled, as the fire glistened in his wild eyes and blackened hairless face, for his grisly beard was scorched away--"his father's son--a Carr!--a Carr!--Culverin for ever! Fetch him out brave boys--a rescue--a rescue! Forward boys--Board!" As he yelled out these words, they seemed to electrify his followers, and with a shout the crew dashed to the burning house as if about to plunge in. There was no hesitation now, not a man flinched, but, leaping in through the lower burning window, the ladder fell in so many glowing fragments amidst the feet of the foremost, who disappeared for a few brief moments, and then re-appeared with Gil Carr, bearing out through the flames a figure that seemed to be clad in gold, so glistening and yellow seemed the satin dress, with its stomacher of pearls. The men drew back from him as Gil bore his burden on towards what had once been the shady lawn of the garden, and laid it reverently down, tearing a handkerchief from his breast to cover the ghastly mutilation of the face, and then crushing out as he knelt the smouldering flames and sparks that had attacked the wedding-dress. "Mace, my darling!" cried Sir Mark, passionately. "Back!" cried Gil, fiercely; "touch her not, upon your life." Sir Mark shrank away, appalled by the fierce gaze of the man who knelt there upon one knee, reverently arranging the garments round the dead, whom he had found comparatively untouched by the flames, but pinioned and crushed by a fallen beam. He heeded not his own sufferings, though those who stood by could see that the doublet he wore was falling from his breast in pieces; that the leather of his belt and boots had crumpled up in the intense heat; and that his hands and face were horribly scorched. "Let me see her, let me see her," cried a harsh voice, and the little crowd parted to let Wat Kilby crawl forward. "Is it Janet? Tell me, brave boys, is it my lass? The cursed powder has taken away my sight. Tell me, brave boys, is it my little, bright, tricksy Janet?" "No, no, no," moaned a piteous voice; "it is my child--my darling child. Oh, Mace, Mace, joy of my poor old heart, has it come to this?" There was so piteous an appeal in these words--so intense, so terrible was the suffering they betokened--that the men drew back as the founder staggered to the side of the dead, let himself fall upon his knees, and there crouched with his hands clasped together in his lap, gazing helplessly down.