the roof. In the frantic hurry and agitation of
the moment, it never struck me that I might let
out the flame instead of letting in the air. I
struck at the skylight, and battered in the
cracked, loosened glass at a blow. The fire
leaped out like a wild beast from its lair. If the
wind had not chanced, in the position I occupied,
to set it away from me, my exertions might have
ended then and there. I crouched on the roof
as the smoke poured out above me, with the
flame. The gleams and flashes of the light
showed me the servant's face staring up vacantly
under the wall; the clerk risen to his feet on the
tombstone, wringing his hands in despair; and
the scanty population of the village, haggard
men and terrified women, clustered beyond in the
churchyard—all appearing and disappearing, in
the red of the dreadful glare, in the black of the
choking smoke. And the man beneath my feet!
—the man, suffocating, burning, dying so near
us all, so utterly beyond our reach!

The thought half maddened me. I lowered
myself from the roof, by my hands, and dropped
to the ground.

"The key of the church!" I shouted to the
clerk. "We must try it that way—we may save
him yet if we can burst open the inner door."

"No, no, no!" cried the old man. "No
hope! the church key and the vestry key are on
the same ring—both inside there! Oh, sir, he's
past saving—he's dust and ashes by this time!"

"They'll see the fire from the town," said a
voice from among the men behind me. "There's
a ingine in the town. They'll save the church."

I called to that man—he had his wits about
him—I called to him to come and speak to me.
It would be a quarter of an hour at least before
the town engine could reach us. The horror of
remaining inactive, all that time, was more than
I could face. In defiance of my own reason I
persuaded myself that the doomed and lost
wretch in the vestry might still be lying senseless
on the floor, might not be dead yet. If we
broke open the door, might we save him?
knew the strength of the heavy lock—I knew
the thickness of the nailed oak—I knew the
hopelessness of assailing the one and the other
by ordinary means. But surely there were beams
still left in the dismantled cottages near the
church? What if we got one, and used it as a
battering-ram against the door?

The thought leaped through me, like the fire
leaping out of the shattered skylight. I
appealed to the man who had spoken first of the
fire-engine in the town. "Have you got your
pickaxes handy?" Yes; they had. And a
hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope? Yes! yes!
yes! I ran down among the villagers, with the
lantern in my hand. "Five shillings apiece to
every man who helps me!" They started into life
at the words. That ravenous second hunger ot
poverty—the hunger for money—roused them
into tumult and activity in a moment. "Two
of you for more lanterns if you have them! Two
of you for the pickaxes and the tools! The rest
after me to find the beam!" They cheered—
with shrill starveling voices they cheered. The
women and the children fled back on either side.
We rushed in a body down the churchyard path
to the first empty cottage. Not a man was left
behind but the clerk—the poor old clerk standing
on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing
over the church. The servant was still at my
heels; his white, helpless, panic-stricken face
was close over my shoulder as we pushed into
the cottage. There were rafters from the torn-
down floor above, lying loose on the ground—
but they were too light. A beam ran across
over our heads, but not out of reach of our arms
and our pickaxes—a beam fast at each end in
the ruined wall, with ceiling and flooring all
ripped away, and a great gap in the roof above,
open to the sky. We attacked the beam at both
ends at once. God! how it held—how the brick
and mortar of the wall resisted us! We struck,
and tugged, and tore. The beam gave at one
end—it came down with a lump of brickwork
after it. There was a scream from the women
all huddled in the doorway to look at us—a
shout from the men two of them down, but not
hurt. Another tug all together—and the beam
was loose at both ends. We raised it, and gave
the word to clear the doorway. Now for the
work! now for the rush at the door! There is
the fire streaming into the sky, streaming brighter
than ever to light us! Steady, along the church-
yard path—steady with the beam, for a rush at
the door. One, two, three—and off. Out rings
the cheering again, irrepressibly. We have
shaken it already; the hinges must give, if
the lock won't. Another run with the beam!
One, two, three and off. It's loose! the
stealthy fire darts at us through the crevice all
round it. Another, and a last rush! The
door falls in with a crash. A great hush of awe,
a stillness of breathless expectation, possesses
every living soul of us. We look for the body.
The scorching heat on our faces drives us back:
we see nothing—above, below, all through the
room, we see nothing but a sheet of living fire.

"Where is he?" whispered the servant, staring
vacantly at the flames.

"He's dust and ashes," said the clerk. "And
the books are dust and ashes—and oh, sirs! the
church will be dust and ashes soon."

When they were silent again, nothing stirred
in the stillness but the bubble and the crackle
of the flames.

Hark!

A harsh rattling sound in the distance—
then, the hollow beat of horses' hoofs at full
gallop—then, the low roar, the all-predominant
tumult of hundreds of human voices clamouring
and shouting together. The engine at last!

The people about me all turned from the fire,
and ran eagerly to the brow of the hill. The
old clerk tried to go with the rest; but his
strength was exhausted. I saw him holding by
one of the tombstones. "Save the church!" he
cried out, faintly, as if the firemen could hear
him already. "Save the church!"

The only man who never moved was the
servant. There he stood, his eyes still fastened on