Every minute the smoke in the room grew more dense. It seemed to him that he would never be able to find his coat or a dressing-gown; and even seconds were perhaps precious.
Desperately, at length, he snatched a blanket from the bed, drew it about him, and groped for the door. Half-blinded, his eyes smarting, he jerked it open and a scorching blast struck him in the face.
The smoke here was hot and lurid. And he dropped to his knees and crept. One way he could see flashes of lambent flame. The other way was black as night itself. But he chose it, and half-crawled, half-leaped, questioning that he would ever be able to reach the open alive.
In his ears was the roar of a thing more ferocious, more devouring than any beast of the jungle. And mingled with the roar was the crackling sound of havoc.
For what seemed like hours the thing was ever at his heels, gaining—gaining. Weird, horrid monsters appeared to rise out of the murk to threaten and affright.
But with aching chest, gripping his blanket closer against a rain of sparks that showered on him as he fled, he flogged his flagging soul to fresh and stronger effort.
Again and again he stumbled and fell—only to recover himself and plunge waveringly, staggeringly onward.
And then, all at once, he was conscious of a cooler breath on his brow and cheeks. The smoke thinned. His nostrils sucked in greedily a refreshing, life-giving damp.
He had reached an open window and was stretching far out into the grateful mist and sea-scented air of God's wide, unconfined world.
A tongue of flame licked his blanket and ran up and out around his neck, scorching his hair. The fire was on him. It had caught up. It was reaching for him to drag him back.