The remains of the Pool-house burned brightly still; the flames licked up rafter and beam; the red-hot tiles cracked and splintered and fell with a crash from time to time, sending up a whirlwind of sparks; and the blaze that lit up the Pool and forest far and near made plain, as if seen by day, the piteous group on the old lawn. But no one heeded the fire now, or dreamed of there being danger of the flying embers setting light to one or other of the powder sheds. Every thought was turned to the bereaved father; and as Sir Mark stood there, among his followers and the workpeople, one of the few unscathed by the fire, he found himself, bridegroom-elect although he had been, a person apparently of very secondary import, for next to Jeremiah Cobbe men and women gazed upon Gil Carr. Just then the founder raised one of his trembling hands and stretched it out to reach the kerchief Gil had so lovingly placed over the mutilated face, but the latter stayed him. "No, no," he said in a low voice, "for your own sake no. Let us remember our darling as she was." The old man's hand closed upon the scorched palm, and then he laid the other upon it and held it, gazing piteously in the other's face. "Right, Gil," he said in a cracked voice. "Right! Let us remember _our_ darling as she was." There was a pause here, and a beam fell in the burning house, causing a whirlwind of sparks to rise. "Forgive me, Gil," continued the founder. "Even if this hand did slay Abel Churr, the fire has purged it. Brave boy--brave boy! I was very hard on both!" "Over her who lies here I swear I am innocent of that man's blood," said Gil softly; and then in a lower tone, "My darling--my darling--you believed my words." "And so do I, Gil," cried the old man piteously. "Oh, my child, my child! God in heaven, how have I sinned that I should suffer this?" A shudder ran through the crowd, so wild and piercing suddenly rose the old man's upbraiding cry, while like an echo to his words came a shrill, harsh voice from the direction of the ruins, where, on a heap of smouldering wood and stones, stood Mother Goodhugh, like a black silhouette against the flames. "Woe to the wicked house! Woe to the maker of deadly grains! Woe to the caster of cannon and culverin and gun!" There was a dead silence, and then, amidst the crackling of the blazing wood and the fluttering of the flames, rose once more the voice of Mother Goodhugh, as she gesticulated and waved her stick. "What did I say? What did I foretell against this evil man and his house? Did I not cry, it was cursed, and that the curse would fall? Look at the wicked place! And now once more I raise up my voice, and tell thee that a curse will fall on him or her who touches stick or stone to try and raise it up again. Let it burn--let it be level with the earth, and become a refuge for snakes and toads and unclean things. Let no man try to build it up, or be he cursed as well."