Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him to silence.
"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God's ways."
So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and splintered freight cars of the other train.
"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the frightened conductor.
The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered.
The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it.
"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to them."
A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest bent low to catch the words.
"Father—don't—risk—trying—to get me—out—before you hear—my confession."
"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly."