Brant cast one glance into the white, unconscious face of his rival, and acted with the promptness of military training.
"Whip off your shirt, Mason, and tie it around your face," he commanded, "Lively now!"
He bound his silk neckerchief across Hampton's mouth, and lifted the limp form partially from the ground. "Help me to get him up. There, that will do. Now keep as close as you can so as to steady him if I trip. Straight ahead—run for it!"
They sprang directly into the lurid flames, bending low, Brant's hands grasping the inert form lying across his shoulder. They dashed stumbling through the black, smouldering lane beyond. Half-way down this, the ground yet hot beneath their feet, the vapor stifling, but with clearer breaths of air blowing in their faces, Brant tripped and fell. Mason beat out the smouldering sparks in his clothing, and assisted him to stagger to his feet once more. Then together they bore him, now unconscious, slowly down below the first fire-line.
