Where the log broke a flame shot forth, lapping the dark wood with avid tongue.

With a crackle the age-old wood began to burn.
Carl watched it with a slight smile.

It pleased him to watch it burn.
That would hurt Diane, for everything in this beautiful old Spanish room linked her subtly to her mother.

Yes, it would hurt her cruelly.
Beyond, at the other end of the table, stood a mate to the burning candlestick, doubtless a silent sentry at many a drinking bout of old when roistering knights gathered about the scarred slab of table-wood beneath his fingers.

A pity though! Artistically the carven thing was splendid.
Cursing himself for a notional fool, Carl jerked the candlestick from the fire and beat out the flames.