The young man muses—maps out his course. His letter of credit is burned; he will borrow the small bills and the silver in these pockets, apply part of it to advertising for the owner, and use the rest for sustenance while he seeks work. He sends out for the morning paper, next, and proceeds to read about the fire. The biggest line in the display-head announces his own death! The body of the account furnishes all the particulars; and tells how, with the inherited heroism of his caste, he went on saving women and children until escape for himself was impossible; then with the eyes of weeping multitudes upon him, he stood with folded arms and sternly awaited the approach of the devouring fiend; “and so standing, amid a tossing sea of flame and on-rushing billows of smoke, the noble young heir of the great house of Rossmore was caught up in a whirlwind of fiery glory, and disappeared forever from the vision of men.” The thing was so fine and generous and knightly that it brought the moisture to his eyes. Presently he said to himself: “What to do is as plain as day, now. My Lord Berkeley is dead—let him stay so. Died creditably, too; that will make the calamity the easier for my father. And I don’t have to report to the American Claimant, now. Yes, nothing could be better than the way matters have turned out. I have only to furnish myself with a new name, and take my new start in life totally untrammeled. Now I breathe my first breath of real freedom; and how fresh and breezy and inspiring it is! At last I am a man! a man on equal terms with my neighbor; and by my manhood, and by it alone, I shall rise and be seen of the world, or I shall sink from sight and deserve it. This _is_ the gladdest day, and the proudest, that ever poured it’s sun upon my head!” CHAPTER VIII. “God bless my soul, Hawkins!” The morning paper dropped from the Colonel’s nerveless-grasp. “What is it?” “He’s gone!—the bright, the young, the gifted, the noblest of his illustrious race—gone! gone up in flames and unimaginable glory!” “Who?” “My precious, precious young kinsman—Kirkcudbright Llanover Marjoribanks Sellers Viscount Berkeley, son and heir of usurping Rossmore.” “No!” “It’s true—too true.” “When?” “Last night.” “Where?” “Right here in Washington; where he arrived from England last night, the papers say.” “You don’t say!” “Hotel burned down.” “What hotel?” “The New Gadsby!” “Oh, my goodness! And have we lost both of them?” “Both _who?_” “One-Arm Pete.” “Oh, great guns, I forgot all about him. Oh, I hope not.” “Hope! Well, I should say! Oh, we _can’t_ spare _him!_ We can better afford to lose a million viscounts than our only support and stay.”