It was partly burned and the red hot surface bit into his flesh. He did not care but raised it above his head and turned to the door. Tortured by the agony of heat as he was, there, to his excited imagination, appeared the horrible form of “Moll o’ the graves,” leering at him and barring the way. She seemed to push him back with her bony claw-like hand. He swung the heavy oak leg through the air like a maniac and shrieked,--“All the devils in Hell shall not hold me back.” He frothed at the mouth and battered in her skull. She grinned at him as the blood trickled through her teeth and pointed to the monstrous shapes that seemed to gather out of the smoke. He thrust her aside with his foot, his heart ceased to beat, but he thundered on the door. Once. Twice. Thrice. And the fourth time it gave way, while the door flew open and he fell heavily forward. He scrambled to his feet and hurried on. There, by the window, lay the beautiful little body. As his brain reeled he saw the martyr, George Wishart, standing over it in the fire, holding the evil spirits at bay. Ian’s eyes seemed to start from his head. He pressed his hands over them as he advanced and looked again. The flames were actually touching her. Ah, she was dead, but how unutterably beautiful! Why for the second time in his life must death snatch out of it the one supreme treasure? Legions of thoughts swirled through his mind. He would paint her like that. Why was he not a sculptor? He would immortalise her form in marble. What transcendent loveliness! As he stooped quickly, suddenly his brain cleared, and, gathering up her hair, he wrapped it in one of the wet cloths and drew it in a single thickness over her face. With another he covered what he could of the exquisite white form and picked it up and ran. This time the fiends seemed unable to reach him, but before he arrived at the third room there was a reverberating roar, part of the floor had given way and a great blank ten or twelve feet wide yawned before him. Once more the voices shouted;--“You are ours--ours--and she is dead.” Yet he heeded them not, but turned back a little way, then ran with all his might and leaped and cleared the chasm. On he went, down the stairs, the madness was on him again. “Keep back, keep back,” he shouted as he tore through the crowd. He looked so terrible, his face distorted with pain, as he ran past that they scattered in all directions. Shiona, at first, alone dared to follow him. He took Aline to one of the lower rooms in the other part of the castle. “Oil,” he cried, “send some one for oil and linen.” Little Joan was coming timidly behind and ran for the things. Ian bent over Aline; she did not breathe. He filled his lungs with fresh air and putting his face down to hers breathed into her and drew the air forth. It was the intuition of affection and it saved her life. After a few moments she began to breathe again. Joan had then returned with the oil.