CHAPTER XVII
THE FIRE
THE flash and roar of the carbine from the wall, a wild shout from the guard answered Varge's cry; like echoes the alarm flashed around the circuit of the turrets, and the big bell in the central dome of the prison burst into tongue in clamouring, booming, guttural notes.
Varge was already halfway across the lawn. The graceful little figure—all in dainty, spotless white that afternoon—to whom his eyes had strayed so often from his work, still stood by the hammock, the trailing sun-bonnet in one hand, a book in the other, which now she clasped closely to her side in an attitude of startled bewilderment. The blue eyes, full of anxious wonder, were fixed on him as he approached.
"It's in the kitchen, I think," he said hurriedly, but in quiet tones, as he paused beside her. "I am afraid the fire must have got a good deal of headway before it showed itself. See!" A thin, yellow flame-tongue appeared for an instant over the peak of the roof, dissolved into a pufif of blackish-grey smoke which, caught by the breeze, came curling toward them down the slanting roof between the dormer windows. "Martha?" he asked quickly. "Where is Martha?"
"She went to the village an hour ago," Janet answered. Her face had gone suddenly white, belying the brave steadiness of her voice. "Do you think that—"
"Please stay here till your father comes, Miss Rand,"
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