“It—­it must be Mr. Ruffin’s house,” she said in an awed voice.  “Oh, Phil!  It is!  Look!  It’s all on fire—­it’s—­oh, see the flames on the roof!  This is terrible—­terrible—­” She caught her breath.

“Phil!  There’s another house on fire!  Do you see—­do you see!  It’s Ailsa’s house—­Marye-mead!  Oh, how could they set it on fire—­how could they have the heart to burn that sweet old place!”

“Is that Marye-mead?” he asked.

“It must be.  That’s where it ought to stand—­and—­oh! oh! it’s all on fire, Phil, all on fire!”

“Shells from the gun-boats,” he muttered, watching the entire sky turn crimson as the flames burst into fury, lighting up clumps of trees and outhouses.  And, as they looked, the windows of another house began to kindle ominously; little tongues of fire fluttered over a distant cupola, leaped across to a gallery, ran up in vinelike tendrils which flowered into flame, veining everything in a riotous tangle of brilliancy.  And through the kindling darkness the sinister boom—­boom! of the guns never ceased, and the shells continued to mount, curve, and fall, streaking the night with golden incandescence.

Outside the gates, at the end of the cedar-lined avenue, where the highway passes, the tumult was increasing every moment amid shouts, cracking of whips, the jingle and clash of traces and metallic racket of wheels.  The house, too, resounded with the heavy hurried tread of army boots trampling up and down stairs and crossing the floors above in every direction.

In the summer kitchen loud-voiced soldiers were cooking; there came the clatter of plates from the dining-room, the odour of hot bread and frying pork.

“All my negroes except old Peter and a quadroon maid have gone crazy,” said Celia hopelessly.  “I had them so comfo’tably qua’tered and provided foh!—­Cary, the ove’seer, would have looked after them while the war lasts—­but the sight of the blue uniforms unbalanced them, and they swa’med to the river, where the contraband boats were taking runaways. . . .  Such foolish creatures!  They were ve’y happy here and quite safe and well treated. . . .  And everyone has deserted, old and young!—­toting their bundles and baskets on their silly haids—­every negro on Paigecourt plantation, every servant in this house except Peter and Sadie has gone with the contrabands . . .  I’m sure I don’t know what these soldiers are cooking in the kitchen.  I expect they’ll end by setting the place afire, and I told Curt so, but he can’t he’p it, and I can’t.  It’s ve’y hard to see the house turned out of the windows, and the lawns and gardens cut to pieces by hoofs and wheels, but I’m only too thankful that Curt can find shelter under this roof, and nothing matters any mo’ as long as he and Stephen are alive and well.”

“Haven’t you heard from Ailsa yet?” asked Berkley in a low voice.