during her long life, Lady Scrope had
collected about her. The rich furniture had, perforce, to be left
behind, save a small piece here and there of exceptional value; but
there were jewels, and golden trinkets, and strangely-carved
ivories set with gems, and all manner of costly trophies from the
distant lands whither vessels now went and returned laden with all
manner of wonders. The Harmers were amazed at the vast amount of
treasure hoarded up in that small house, and wondered that Lady
Scrope had not many times had her life attempted by the servants,
who must have known something of the contents of cabinet and chest.

But her reputation as a witch had been a great safeguard, and her
own intrepid spirit had done even more to hold robbers at bay. All
who knew her were fully aware that she was quite capable of
shooting down any person found in the act of robbing her, and that
she always kept loaded pistols in her room in readiness. There was
a story whispered about, of her having locked up in one of her
rooms a servant whom she had caught pilfering, and it was said that
she had starved him to death amid the plunder he had gathered, and
had afterwards had his body flung without burial into the river.
Whether there was more than rumour in such a gruesome tale none
could now say, but it had long become an acknowledged axiom that
Lady Scrope's goods had better be let alone.

Twice had the boat been laden and returned, for all concerned
worked with a will, and now all had been removed from the house
which it was possible to take on such short notice and in such a
fashion. The fire was surging furiously across the road, and in
more than one place it had leaped the street, and the other side,
the south side, was now burning as fiercely as the northern. Dorcas
had been dispatched to call down Lady Scrope, for her father
reckoned that in ten minutes more the house would be actually
engulfed in the oncoming mass of flames. And now the girl hurried
up to them, her face blanched with terror.

"She will not come, father; she will not come. She laughs to scorn
all that I say. She stands upon the parapet of the roof, tossing
her arms, and crying aloud as she sees building after building
catch fire, and the great billows of flame rolling along. Oh, it is
terrible to see and to hear her! Methinks she has gone distraught.
Prithee, go fetch her down by force, dear father, for I trow that
naught else will suffice."

Father and son