The evening had draped itself in a somber twilight, its heavy, oppressive air tinged with the acrid scent of smoke. Beneath the canopy of darkened skies, the mob’s fevered conversation rippled through the streets, thick with malcontent and the morbid thrill of destruction.
“What was that you spoke of?” one man inquired, his voice laden with dark curiosity.
“To bind myself to a woman,” came the retort, dripping with disdain.
“Ha! You’d wed anew before your bride was cold in her grave,” another interjected, his tone mocking. “I’d wager you’d seek the company of a vampyre before the next sun rose. At least then, there’d be something to ponder—a wretched hour-glass with no tick.”
“If only Sir Ferdinand Lazarus had claimed her for eternity,” the first man continued, bitterness oozing from his words. “I dare say, when the next cycle of his cursed existence came to pass, he’d not be so eager to renew it. I’d imagine he’d find managing women no more agreeable than I do.”
“Indeed, nor would any other soul,” was the weary consensus from the shadows.
A raucous cheer suddenly pierced the night, drawing their attention. A looming throng of figures, clad in the scarlet coats of the military, advanced with grim determination.
“The red coats!” a voice bellowed.
“The soldiers!” another cried out, with an edge of trepidation.
The soldiers, dispatched to quell the chaos that had ignited around Sir Ferdinand Lazarus’s estate, marched with resolute purpose toward the blazing inferno. A crowd had swelled with morbid curiosity, driven by the fire’s seductive allure, trailing behind the military as they made their way to the scene of devastation.
“Here they come,” announced a voice, laced with an anticipatory grimace.
“Yes, just in time to witness the ruin,” a cynical reply followed. “They’ll have tales to tell of how we reduced the vampyre’s abode to cinders. Hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” roared the mob, their voices rising in a sinister chorus that reached the ears of the approaching soldiers.
The officer leading the troops urged his men to quicken their pace, their disciplined steps contrasting sharply with the chaotic dance of the mob. The mob’s jeers mingled with the crackling of flames, painting a macabre tableau under the night sky.
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“They should have arrived earlier,” muttered one bystander. “Now they are too late.”
“Yes,” another agreed. “Too late, indeed.”
A voice from the throng broke in with dark humor. “I wonder if the vampyre can survive the smoke and flames, if he can endure a bullet, as we know he can. Surely, he must perish if the fire reaches him.”
“If he can withstand a bullet,” mused another, “he might endure the flames, but surely, even a vampyre must eventually succumb to such an inferno.”
“Hurrah!” the mob chanted as a towering flame leapt from the roof, casting an ominous glow over the charred remnants of the mansion.
The fire had assumed a monstrous form, its voracious hunger consuming everything in its path. The hopes of salvaging any part of the estate had long since vanished.
“Hurrah!” shouted the mob, their voices joining the soldiers’ as they arrived. The mingling of the two groups created a dissonant symphony of triumph and devastation.
“Quick march!” commanded the officer, his voice cutting through the din. “Clear the way! Clear the way!”
“There’s room enough,” drawled the old Mason, his tone dripping with derision. “Why all this clamor?”
Laughter erupted at the officer’s expense, though he remained unperturbed, his gaze fixed on the blazing structure. He ordered his men into position before the inferno, which now loomed as a colossal conflagration.
The soldiers, falling in line, formed a barrier before the burning estate. They prepared for further orders, their disciplined formation starkly juxtaposed against the wild chaos of the mob.
“Halt!” the officer commanded, his voice slicing through the smoke-filled air. The soldiers obeyed, forming a double line before the mansion.
Orders were exchanged among the ranks, and a detachment led by a sergeant was dispatched to survey the periphery of the estate. The officer, his gaze steady on the fire’s wrath, spoke in a subdued tone to his second-in-command.
“We have arrived too late,” he intoned.
“Yes, much too late,” the second agreed.
“The house is nearly consumed,” the officer observed.
“Indeed,” came the solemn reply.
“And those who followed us are indistinguishable from those who instigated this disaster,” the officer continued, his voice tinged with frustration. “We cannot differentiate the perpetrators from the onlookers. Even if we could, there is no evidence to act upon.”
“Precisely,” agreed the second-in-command. “I shall make no attempt to detain anyone unless further transgressions occur.”
“It is a peculiar affair,” the officer remarked, his tone laced with resignation.
“Very peculiar,” his subordinate concurred.
“This Sir Ferdinand Lazarus is reputed to be a man of gentlemanly demeanor,” the officer mused.
“Without doubt,” replied the second-in-command, “but he is plagued by a rabble who would slit a throat for sport. They are a dangerous lot.”
“Indeed,” the officer acknowledged. “When popular sentiment turns against a man, he would be wise to depart forthwith. It is perilous to meddle with such deep-seated prejudices; it is akin to signing one’s own death warrant.”
As the fire blazed on, the night air grew colder, the flames casting eerie shadows that danced with a life of their own. The estate, once a bastion of grandeur, now lay in ruins, a testament to the unrelenting fury of the mob and the dark forces that had driven them. The inferno's roar was a chilling echo of the night's tumultuous events, a somber reminder of the fragile boundary between order and chaos.