It was but a few seconds from the time of the explosion before Billy was placing his ladder at one of the windows where the lights had twinkled so shortly before, calling May Nell’s name in tones that rang through the night.
He knew that both stairways were cut off; whoever had prepared the mine had seen to that. “May Nell! Come to the east window!” Billy called again and again as he climbed nimbly, and plunged into the smoke and heat.
“Yes, I’m here—in mama’s room—she’s fallen—I can’t lift her.”
Billy heard the suffocation in her voice, the weakness. He knew the room, and groped his way on, calling, “Come this way! The ladder is at the other window! Come quick! I’ll bring your mother!”
Billy’s own words were choking, sputtering even though he was holding his head down. Where was he? Surely he had made no mistake, was going the right way. “May Nell! Where’s the door? Where are you?” But no voice answered, and for a breath Billy believed he could not go on. They were caught, lost!
Yet that thought nerved him. Those two suffocating—burning—The little girl he had succored once before, the brightest, loveliest—Yes, in that instant his soul flashed a clear vision! She was the one. She had been the inspiration to the noblest deeds he had ever thought or hoped. She was the star of his life!
Some instinct guided him,—or was it his own soul? Something besides conscious volition led him through an open door, kept him calling, calling frantically, and crouching around the room to find the prostrate woman. “May Nell! May Nell! Speak! Where are you?”
It was enough. Some shock from his soul to hers galvanized her to consciousness. She roused, answered feebly, and moved toward the bed where her mother had fallen.
“Give her to me; I am fresh,” he said, attempting to take Mrs. Smith from Billy’s arms.