n a strange
crackling sound attracted his attention, and at the same moment a man,
who had ventured out into the park to watch the proceedings of the enemy
rushed back, exclaiming:

"They are burning the chateau!"

The tidings of this new misfortune overpowered Philip and almost bereft
him of reason. He ran to the door. A tall column of flame and smoke was
mounting to the sky; the trees were tinged with a crimson light, and the
crackling of the fire could be distinctly heard above the hooting and
yelling of the infuriated crowd. His eyes filled with tears, but he was
dashing them away preparatory to returning to his father when the Abbe
Peretty joined him.

"Courage, my poor boy!" said the good priest.

"I will be brave, sir. I can cheerfully submit to the loss of our
possessions, but to the death of my father, I----"

He could not complete the sentence. The abbe, who had lost all hope, was
silent for a moment; then he said:

"There is something I must no longer conceal from you. After the chateau
is destroyed, I fear these wretches will search the park in order to
discover our retreat. I do not fear for myself. I shall remain with the
Marquis. They will respect a dying man and a white-haired priest; but
you, Philip, must remain here no longer. Make your escape with
Mademoiselle de Mirandol without delay."

"I cannot abandon my father," replied Philip. "If our hiding-place is
discovered, we will defend ourselves--we will fight until death!"

The priest said no more, and they both returned to the bedside of the
Marquis. On seeing them, the latter, addressing his son, inquired:

"The chateau is on fire, is it not?"

Philip's reply seemed to cause the Marquis intense anguish; but, after a
moment, he motioned to his son to come nearer; then he said.

"Listen, Philip. You must leave France. This unhappy country is about to
enter upon a series of misfortunes which neither you nor I can foresee,
and of which you will certainly be a victim if you remain here. You must
depart, Philip. Think, my son, you will be the sole heir of the house of
Chamondrin."

"You will recover, father."

"No; death is close at hand. It is so near that I cannot deceive myself;
so, Philip, I wish you to grant one of my dearest wishes. I wish, before
I die, to feel assured that the family of Chamondrin will be
perpetuated. Consent to marry Antoinette."

Philip, as we have said before, had already tacitly consented to this
marriage. Sin