Even as he spoke a tongue of flame, mocking the dull glow with its gleaming blaze, shot up like a thin red knife into the sky and sank again. A shout came from behind. The others had seen it, also, and recognised its deadly import. The next moment the clatter of galloping hoofs echoed along the road as the whole party urged their horses on towards home as fast as they could cover the ground. Soon they struck off from the road, taking a bridle-path which slanted through the woods clothing the base of the hill, and as they emerged on to the broad plateau where Beirnfels had stood sentinel through wind and weather for so many years, the whole extent of the catastrophe was revealed. By this time the angry glow in the sky had turned dusk into day, while from the doors and windows of the castle fire vomited forth as from a furnace--upward in long, sinuous tongues of flame, licking the blackened walls, downward in spangled showers of sparks that drifted towards the earth like flights of golden butterflies. Little groups of men and women, helpless as ants to stay the fire, rushed futilely hither and thither with hosepipe and engine, while on the smooth sward which fronted the castle lay piled enormous quantities of household stuff a medley of fine old furniture, torn tapestry wrenched from its place against the walls, pictures, mirrors--anything and everything that could be dragged out into the open by eager hands and willing arms. The major-domo, an elderly, grey-haired man who had been born and reared upon the estate and who had taken service with Glyn Peterson on the day when he had first brought Jacqueline, a bride, to Beirnfels, caught sight of the riding-party returned and came hurrying to Jean’s side. The tears were running down his wrinkled face as he recounted the discovery of the fire, which must have started either just before or during the servants’ dinner-hour, when few people, of course, were about the castle, and which had obtained a firm hold before it was detected. The household staff, practised to a limited extent,--a fire drill had been held once a month in Peterson’s time--had done their hest to cope with the flames, but vainly. The high wind which had arisen had thwarted their utmost efforts, and finally giving up all hope of saving the interior from being gutted, they had confined themselves to rescuing such valuables as could be easily removed. There was the usual mystery as to how the fire had originated, and several stories circulated amongst the chattering throng which hurried hither and thither, momentarily augmented by the peasants who, at sight of the castle in flames, had come trooping up the hill from the village below.