Mr. Moore deposited his hat-stand under a tree, and standing still for a moment, wiped his hot forehead. He did not attempt to stop their shouting, he knew that it would be useless; he thought with regret of that bookcase.
And now there came a shout louder, or at least more agonized, than any of the others, and round the corner of the house appeared the boy Primus; he ran towards them, shouting still, with each step he almost fell—"She's dar—Mis' Horrel!"
He too had seen the light, and, approaching the place from the south, he had passed, in running towards the front, the narrow high south wing; here at a window he had seen a face—the face of Margaret Harold.
Mr. Moore was gone at the boy's first cry. The others followed.
The south wing was not visible from the front. Its third story was in flames, and the back and sides of the ground-floor had caught, but at a second-story window (which she had opened) they all saw a face—that of Margaret Harold; the glare of the main building showed her features perfectly. They could not have heard her, even if she had been able to call to them, the roar of the fire was now so loud.
"She cannot throw herself out, it's too high; and we have no blanket. There's a door below, isn't there? And stairs?" It was Mr. Moore's voice that asked.
"Yes, passon, yes. But it's all a-bu'nin'!"
Mr. Moore clasped his hands and bowed his head, it did not take longer than a breath. Then he started towards the wing.
"Oh, passon, yer dassent!"
"Oh, passon, yer can't help her now, de sweet lady, it's too late. Pray for her yere, passon; she'll go right straight up, she's wunner der Lawd's own chillun, de dove!"