Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v108.djvu/407

Rh still sitting with her face half hidden, but he could see the line of her thin cheek, the sensitive, trembling lips, the slender, graceful hand. She was so slight, so young, so alone save for those who depended on her, so burdened, so defenceless, and—yes—beautiful; with the subtle beauty of grace, of sensitive refinement, that doubly unfitted her for the life she led. Ai had not deceived her; he had fulfilled his promise. He had gained the pardon! But how had he done this? And for what reason? The color rushed suddenly to Courtney's face. His blood ran hot, protesting, in his veins. A quick fear of the man and of his unsuspected powers sickened him. He half rose from his chair. What he meant to do, to say, he hardly knew. Of one thing only he was sure—into this trap she should not walk unwarned.

"Miss Ireland—"

Her hand dropped at his voice, and she looked up at him—then swiftly past him, over his shoulder. He saw her start, saw her eyes set, then widen as with a sudden terror.

"Look!" she cried, sharply. "Oh, Mr. Courtney, look!"

And before Courtney could turn, from the room behind came that sharp cry which bears its own strange message of human fear and excitement in the very sound of the word—fire. Courtney had once seen a fire-stampede of frightened Italian laborers, and with that undying remembrance flashing through his brain he sprang to his feet. The corner where they sat was sheltered from the crowded room by the rubber-trees and hanging vines—a frail screen! He thrust back the table close against the wall and caught Miss Ireland's arm, forcing her to her feet. Before the crash of falling chairs, of wild outcries, broke the momentary hush of terror, he had leaped upon the table, dragging Miss Ireland to his side. He held her fast, hiding her face against his shoulder.

"Don't look!" he cried. "Don't look!"

Then he turned, facing the room.

"Let him alone. I've been all over him. He's all right. He took an ugly crack on the head when that table turned over, and I guess those swine walked on him some. I pulled him out from under some ten dagoes. Just keep on swabbing his head there, Kitty. That's right. I tell you we had a narrow squeak! Fire department poked its nozzle in just in time! One minute there I thought we were all going to pot. Mighty little harm done, after all. Cause? Oh, anything might have caused it. The place was just fixed for a fire—all that grease and paper. We slipped in nicely up here, and we'll get off the same way. Would make a good story, wouldn't it? Rescued his little typewriter! Hey, Miss Ireland? But I guess the quieter I keep the better—this time. That fire was my fault; at least the panic was. I own that property. There ought to have been a back way out long ago. Will be now! I was there to-night seeing my tenant about it. What's that, Kitty? Coming to? So he is. Lie still there, youngster! You're in the hands of your friends. Lie still! Keep your eyes shut!"

Courtney obeyed, ceasing to struggle physically. Mentally the sharp, exhausting effort to rouse himself, to be alive again, would go on, conquered now and then by waves of weakness that swept him back into dim places where all was confusion, and where only this deep, penetrating, heavy voice, curiously familiar, reached his consciousness—rousing, quieting, controlling him. In a way he felt himself clinging to it, listening for it. And finally he remembered. The whole scene rose before him. They were standing on the table; he was holding Miss Ireland in his arms, her face hidden on his shoulder—the only outlet to the room a blazing mass of tissue-paper roses, of flimsy lace curtains, of fine dry woodwork. And then—the voice! Hoarse, magnetic, powerful, a voice to follow, to obey; it bellowed above the uproar, exhorting, cursing, compelling. Only his charge kept Courtney from the leader's side. His blood was tingling with inaction. He stood peering through the heavy smoke, shielding her from sights and sounds, from the stifling air. The higher air under the balcony was suffocating, but, while she could breathe at all, less dangerous than the crowded floor below.

The voice was at his knee, close by him, strained, choked, whispering.

"A door out—to the roof—up—on the