He tried to shout for help, but only a feeble croak issued from his parched lips. A terrible fear assailed him: if a few minutes’ immersion in the smoke could rob him of his strength, how must it be with the Frenchman, who had been so much longer exposed? Was he too late? Was the old gentleman past help?
The thought nerved him to one more effort. He rose, and pulled with all his might at the Frenchman’s legs. Staggering, he got him through the doorway on to the landing. Here there was a little more air, but Martin’s head swam; sick and dizzy he reeled, fell, and struck his head against the banisters. At the moment of his losing consciousness there was a noise in his ears, above the roar of the flames—a noise as of people shouting and running.
When he came to himself he was lying in the roadway. His head and chest were wet. His dazed, aching eyes saw Susan Gollop bending over him; in the background were other figures, among which he by and by recognised that of George Hopton.
“Mounseer!” he murmured.
“Mounseer is safe, my lamb,” said Susan, her tone unusually soft. “Take a drink: you’ll soon be all right again.”
He drank greedily from the cup she offered. A well-dressed elderly gentleman came forward.
“He is recovering, mistress?” he said.
“Ay, sir, thank God!” replied Susan. “But I wish Gollop would come. I don’t know what in the world we are to do now. The old house is done for: we’ve got our little bits of furniture here, but nowhere to go.”
“Don’t distress yourself, my good woman,” said the gentleman. “I will make it my charge to look after you all until something can be arranged. I would take you to my own house were it not so far away; that is impossible; but I will at once ride off to a farm I know at Islington, where I make no doubt I can arrange for your housing.”
He crossed the road to where a boy was holding a horse, mounted, and rode away.