The smell of smoke came to his nostrils as he turned another corner. The fire had obtained a fine start before it was discovered. Through the buildings and the trees the red glow was bursting forth with greater brightness each moment.
Another corner turned, and the burning house was before him, with the fire bursting from its upper windows.
“It’s Darius Conrad’s house!” cried somebody.
“Retribution!” exclaimed Frank. “It is the hand of fate that strikes the man!”
For a moment a feeling like exultation ran all over him. He stopped running, and walked forward slowly. Before the house a number of persons could be seen huddled together, as if they were dazed, while others were running about wildly in the red glare of the fire.
Frank came up.
“Are they all out of the house?” asked somebody.
“They must be,” said another person.
Just then the door burst open, and a man came out in a few scanty garments, looking as if he plunged from a sea of fire, which glowed red and yellow behind him. He ran out into the middle of the street, waving his arms above his head and shouting. There he fell in the dust, and the crowd gathered about him.
“Oh, my son! my son!” groaned the man, as he writhed prostrate in the dust. “I went back for him! I could not reach him! He is in there somewhere—sick, wounded, helpless! My God! Can no one save him?”