The warden clutched the man's arm. "Up there? Up there?" he cried.
The sudden approach of the woman and the words that followed had wrought so much confusion that the men had paid no attention to the foreman's command, and he had even failed to notice their lack of attention, in the excitement of that moment.
"Great God!" cried the warden. "What can I do—what can I do? No one can live up there!"
There was a crash. One of the windows fell out. "Get a ladder!" some one cried. A guard ran back toward the prison-house. Then, in the midst of the hubbub, a man in a dingy gray suit stepped out a yard from the line of convicts. His prison number was 2034. He touched his little square cap.
"If you'll give me permission, I think I can get up there," was all he said.
"You! you!" exclaimed the warden. "No, no; I will tell no man to do it!"
There was a second crash. Another window had fallen out, and now the tongues of flame were lapping the outer walls above.
The convict made no reply. With a bound he was at the end of the line and dashing up the stairway.
The warden's wife was on her knees, clinging to the hand of her husband. In his eyes was a dead, cold look. A few men bit their lips, and a faint shadow of a smile played about the mouths of others. They all waited. A convict had broken a regulation—had run from the line! He would be punished! Even as he had clambered up the stairs a guard had cried, "shall I shoot?"
The silence was broken by a shriek from the woman kneeling at the warden's feet. "Look!" she cried, and pointed towards the last of the up-stairs windows.