He caught the cry. He saw Faith stand there, in her white dress, that had been wet and blackened in her battling with the fire.
A great soul glance of courage and resolve flashed from his eyes. He reached his uplifted arms toward her, answering hers. He uttered not a word.
"Round! round!" cried Faith. "The door upon the other side!"
Roger Armstrong, leaping to the spot, and Michael Garvin, escaped by the long rope that hung vibrating from his grasp, down the brick wall of the building, met at the staircase door.
"Help me drive that in!" cried the minister.
And the two men threw their stalwart shoulders against the barrier, forcing lock and hinges.
Up the stairs rushed Roger Armstrong.
Answering the crash of the falling door, came another and more fearful crash within.
Gnawed by the fire, the timbers and supports beneath the forward portion of the second floor had given way, and the heavy looms that stood there had gone plunging down. A horrible volume of smoke and steam poured upward, with the flames, from out the chasm, and rushed, resistlessly, everywhere.
Roger Armstrong dashed into the little countingroom. Faith lay there, on the floor. At that fearful crash, that rush of suffocating smoke, she had fallen, senseless. He seized her, frantically, in his arms to bear her down.