“Quick, tell Jim! Call him! Oh, hurry, Jean, the stables are on fire. I’m going—the horses!” She was groping for shoes and flinging on a coat. Then she tore downstairs, shouting as she went. From the stables, as she stumbled out upon the verandah, came again the sound of her dreams, and she caught her breath in a sob. For no one who has ever heard it can forget the horror of a horse’s scream.
The stables were burning fiercely. One end, the westward end, that held the buggy house and harness rooms, was a sheet of flame; but the fire had not yet fairly seized upon the whole, although the door of the loose boxes showed trails of smoke coming from within. She could hear the trampling of hoofs, jostling, terrified, and then a long whinny of utter fear, rising again to a scream. Sobbing, she wrestled with the stiff bolt of the door.
Across the garden came a shout—Jim’s voice.
“Come away from that, Norah! Come back, dear. They’ll trample over the top of you.” He was running desperately towards the little figure against the lit building.
“They’re burning!” said Norah, sobbing. The fastening yielded, and she flung one door back, unable to see anything for the dense smoke. She called the horses by name, pushing open the lower door, and had barely time to jump aside when Monarch and Bosun bolted out, frantic with fear. Further back, the scream came once more.
“Oh, it’s Garryowen!” Norah gasped, “and his door’s shut; and if I don’t go in, Jim will.” She took a long breath, a child’s fear fighting against pity and love. Then she put her arm up, as if to guard her eyes, and stumbled into the smoke.
Within, it was almost impossible to breathe. Fierce little shoots of fire came through cracks in the wall that showed a mass of flame beyond; and the heat was choking and deadly. Already the roof was burning; the hay in the loft above had caught, and the flames were shooting fifty feet above the stables. In his box, Jim’s big bay thoroughbred was rearing and kicking, mad with terror. Even when Norah had managed to open his door, he would not come out to face the unknown horrors. She called him, trying to steady her voice—knowing that to venture within his box in his maddened state was little short of suicide. From outside she could hear Jim’s voice, shouting for her, sharp with anxiety.
“Oh, I’ll have to leave him!” Norah sobbed. “The fire’s coming through the roof. Oh, Garry, dear, do come out!”
Above the loose box the ceiling split open for about a yard, and a shower of burning fragments came down. They struck Garryowen on the quarter—and the great horse, screaming, plunged through the open door and out like a whirlwind to the glimpse of star-lit sky that showed through the further doorway. Behind him Norah staggered feebly, brushing burning particles from her hair—holding one hand across her mouth in the vain effort to keep out the choking smoke. Within sight of safety, consciousness left her; she tripped, falling face downward on the wooden blocks.
Jean’s terrified voice at his door had awakened Jim almost before Norah had flown downstairs. The glow in his room did not put the fear into his heart that flashed there at the stammering words—