Pauline Corsi was seated at the other extremity of the apartment, working briskly at a large piece of embroidery, and lost in thought. She did not, therefore, observe the proceedings of her young pupil.
For some time Camillia read on undisturbed; but by-and-by, growing weary of her book, she cast it from her with an impatient exclamation, and stretched out her hand to reach another from the volumes on the table beside her. In doing so she upset the reading-lamp.
The glass globe broke with a crash; the inflammable oil and burning wick were spilled upon the gauzy muslin folds of her voluminous dress.
She uttered a shriek of horror, for in one brief moment she found herself in flames.
The negro heard that shriek; and, swift as the panther darting from his lair, he bounded from the threshold where he had been lying.
Losing all presence of mind, Camillia, followed by Pauline Corsi, rushed past the slave Tristan, and from the ante-chamber into the saloon beyond.
The flames, fanned by the current of air through which she passed, rose toward her head. In another moment she would have been lost.
But the preserver was at hand.
With a yell of agony, like that of a wild beast in its death struggle with the hunter, the negro flung himself upon the floor of the ante-chamber, and tore up the heavy Persian carpet which covered the room; then, rushing upon Camillia, he enveloped her slender form in this massive fabric, and with his own hands extinguished the flames.
The Spaniard's daughter escaped unscathed from this terrible ordeal, but the hands of the slave were fearfully scorched and wounded.