"Gertrude!" she said, gasping—and pointed to the Loggia. And he had hardly looked where all the world was looking, when a part of the roof of the Hall at the back, fell suddenly outwards and northwards, in a blaze of flame. Charred rafters stood out, hanging in mid air, and the flames leapt on triumphant. At the same moment, evidently startled by some sound behind her, the woman turned, and saw what the crowd saw—the child, limping on its crutch, coming towards her, calling incoherently.
Her own cry rang out, as she ran towards the cripple, waving her back.
And as she did so, came another thundering fall, another upward rush of
flame, as a fresh portion of the roof fell eastwards, covering the
Loggia and blotting out the figures of both woman and child.
With difficulty the police kept back the mad rush of the crowd. The firemen swarmed to the spot.
But the child was buried deep under flaming ruin, where her father, Daunt, who had rushed to save her, was only restrained by main force from plunging after her, to his death. The woman they brought out—alive. France, Delia and Winnington were beside her.
"Stand back!" shouted the mild old Rector—transformed into a prophet-figure, his white hair streaming—as the multitude swayed against the cordon of police. "Stand back! all of you—and pray—for this woman!"
In a dead silence, men, shivering, took off their hats, and women sobbed.
"Gertrude!" Delia called, in her anguish, as she knelt beside the charred frame, over which France who was kneeling on the other side had thrown his coat.
The dark eyes opened in the blackened face, the scorched lips unlocked.
A shudder ran through the dying frame.
"The child!—the child!"
And with that cry to heaven,—that protesting cry of an amazed and conquered soul—Gertrude Marvell passed away.