"It is all right, Mr. Cohen," a number of voices replied. "She is saved!"
"Thank God, oh, thank God!" he cried. "Take me to her. Where is she?"
He cared not for the ruin that had overtaken him; like cool water to a parched throat had come the joyful news.
"Take me to her. In the name of Heaven, tell me where she is!"
She was in a house, at a safe distance from the fire, and thither he was led. Rachel was lying on a couch in her nightdress; sympathising people were about her.
"Rachel, Rachel!" he cried, and fell upon his knees by her side.
She did not answer him; she was insensible.
"Do not agitate yourself," said a voice. It was that of a physician who had been attending to her. "Be thankful that she lives."
"O Lord, I thank Thee!" murmured the stricken man. "My Rachel lives!"
What mattered all the rest? What mattered worldly ruin and destruction? The beloved of his heart was spared to him.