Cyril found the fire gaining upon him. Of what use was it to run? Oh, if he could only come to some open space, or a sheet of water into which he could hasten!
But no. There were no signs of either. Cyril became hotter and hotter. Soon, very soon, the fire would overtake him. He almost felt its hot breath on his cheeks. Wringing his hands he sank down with a loud, despairing cry.
CHAPTER III.
RESCUED.
Now it happened that Whiterock and his companions had been fleeing before the fire for at least an hour, when its direction brought them to the place where Cyril fell.
The boy's wild, despairing cry was unheeded by most of the men, who were only bent on saving their own lives, but on Whiterock's ears it fell with powerful appeal. Swiftly he galloped up, espied the boy, leaped from his horse, flung Cyril upon the saddle, remounted, and once more rode off with him at full speed.
"The boy's wild, despairing cry was unheeded."
The men knew of a large clearing extending for several miles, where lumbermen had felled and carried away the great pines. They rode straight there, and in the course of an hour reached the place.