“Well, it will soon be over, soon be over,” I groaned to myself. “The torture shall not be long if with my free hand I can get a quicker death,” I resolved in the desperation of my agony.
It seemed hours to us wretches lying there ’twixt hell and heaven, but I suppose it was only minutes. Then there was a cracking, a breaking. An iron crowbar in the hands of a man had broken through the débris and was lifting the frightful weight from my arm.
I could see his face distinctly, as with the giant strength of a madman, but with the clear eye of one who was a born general, he marshaled his panic-stricken followers and bade them aid him.
“Here, Jim,” he shouted hoarsely, his voice rising above the roar of the flames, “hold on there! Now you and Tom and the rest, pull!—pull as you never pulled before!”
But it was all in vain; as well try to lift a mountain.
“Take this child,” groaned a muffled voice at my side, and as the strong arms of the stranger lifted little Hans limp and lifeless, and hastily laid him in the soft dark mud behind him, I saw for the first time Mildred’s white face beside me.
“There ain’t no use, boss,” cried the men in a frenzy, and stopping to wring their hands. “We can’t do nothing; they’ve got to burn alive!”
“Then for God’s sake give me your pistol or your knife!” I cried fiercely.
“Yes, Mildred,” I protested, “it’s right, it’s right. If we must die, let it be quickly, and not by inches.”
But Mildred did not hear. She was looking at the stranger with wild, staring eyes, and for an instant, as if paralyzed, he gazed at her. Then a look of such agony as I never saw on a human face convulsed his features, and he cried, “Boys, once more! I must save this woman!” and while they stood wringing helpless hands, he, with knotted veins and starting eyes, made one herculean effort, and Mildred was in his arms and free.