Then he looked up his glen, and saw torrents of
smoke and flame pouring and streaming above
the trees, above the hills, into the pale green
air of the dawn. He thanked God that those
he loved were safe, and wondered bitterly about
the helpless crowd that had taken refuge under
his roof. But the boat sped farther and farther
out to sea. A rival conflagration to that ghastly
one of the hills burst forth among the clouds
in the east. The sun rose, and Sir Archie was
out of danger.

Meantime Hester sped on through the village.
Not a living creature was to be seen. Heaps
of ruins smoked on every side, and some of the
larger houses still burned fiercely. Hester's
heart died within her, as she thought that Mrs.
Hazeldean's house might also lie in ashes. The
doctor and his wife might be dead, buried under
the ruins of their home. Why not, when fire
was everywhere? The very air seemed blazing,
as the red light of the rising sun strengthened
and came streaming from the east, glowing upon
Hester's shoulders, falling before her on the
road. Heaven and earth were burning. It
seemed to her that she was flying through a
wilderness of flames.

At such a time as this people think all of
themselves, or nothing of themselves. At the
first news of the attack upon the castle, Dr.
Hazeldean had gone out from his house and
taken his way up the glen. This husband and
his wife had taken counsel together, and they
had agreed that it was his duty to go and see to
the wounded. So the doctor went forth, and
Mrs. Hazeldean remained in her house.

She was on her knees in her parlour, alone,
when she heard Hester's wild hands coming
beating on her door and window. Her lamp
was still burning, and her shutters closed. She
had passed the long hours of the night in
prayer, and she did not know that the morning
had already arisen. The noise aroused her
rudely. She arose from her knees, and went
boldly to her door. She expected less gentle
visitors than the worn-out fugitive who
clamoured for admittance. Why should she think
to be spared in such an hour? The brave
ruddy sunlight poured in on her from the outer
world, and Hester fell sobbing into her arms.

"He is saved!" cried Hester; "he is saved!"

"Who is saved?" asked Mrs. Hazeldean.

"Sir Archie," said Hester. "He is half across
the bay by this time!"

She was a sorry figure for Mrs. Hazeldean's
kind eyes to behold. Her face was blackened,
her arm bled from the wound made by the
bayonet, her clothes were scorched, her hands
burned.

Happily it is not necessary to state here how
many young babes and their mothers perished
with the destruction of the Castle of Glenluce. In
the morning which followed that woeful night, it
was found that a heap of ruins was all that
remained of the home of the Munros. Then came
the rebels mustering, blanching, and raving, and
cursing deeply over the murdered wives and
mothers, the old men who were no more, and
the maidens whom yesterday morning had
beheld in their bloom. They had doubted Sir
Archie, and held aloof from him. Now that he
had suffered, that he had perished, as was
supposed, in the flames with their kin, they held
him a martyr to their cause, and vowed
vengeance on his destroyers. None could tell that
Sir Archie had been saved, except the Hazeldeans,
Hester, and Pat, the butler. And none
of these chose to speak. It was well he should
be thought to have perished, so long as there
could be danger of his being pursued. For to
be suspected in these times was to be held
guilty, to be hunted with relentless fury unto
death.

So it was believed that Sir Archie had died
among his people, his poor whom he had striven
so hard to save. Lady Helen Munro and Miss
Golden had been rescued by Pierce Humphrey,
and escorted to Shane's Castle, where Lord
O'Neal lay dying. Miss Madge was also of this
melancholy party.

When last we saw Miss Madge she was at
work making bullets. Later she betook herself
on a sad mission among the crowds of doomed
fugitives. In the end she was dragged out of
the flames in despite of her own recklessness,
torn from an upper room, where she was scorching
to death, throwing children out of the
windows, with appeals to some soldiers not so
fiendish as the rest. Poor Madge had been no
beauty at any time of her life, in spite of her
declaration made to Hester, that she had grown
up well and astonished everybody. But she
bore the scars of that night upon her face, till
it was hid from public view in her coffin.

Soon it got abroad among the rebels that it
was Hester Cashel, the spy, who had wrought
all this mischief; who had burned the castle
with Sir Archie and his people.

Towards evening on the day after the attack
on Glenluce a crowd of rebels assembled on
Dr. Hazeldean's lawn. The doctor was again
abroad upon his errand of mercy. Mrs. Hazeldean
went out and parleyed with the ominous
intruders. They were mad with untamed grief,
savage with the thirst for vengeance.

"The spy!" they demanded. "The spy!
We want the spy!"

"What spy?" asked Mrs. Hazeldean. "We
have no spy here."

"The spy Hester!" they cried. "The cursed
English spy who burned our women, and our
children, and our master."

"You are terribly mistaken," said Mrs.
Hazeldean. "She is not a spy. She had
nothing to do with these horrors that have
happened, beyond suffering in the midst of
them, which she has done bravely."

"Bring her out!" they shouted, "or we will
burn the house over her head!"

"I will not bring her out," said Mrs. Hazeldean,
gazing unflinchingly on the terrible band.
She stood bareheaded and defenceless amongst
them, in the sunshine of the bright June day.
One of the men raised his pike at her with a