“Pah! it’s getting smoky,” cried one man, coughing loudly. “I suppose there’s no need for us to be suffocated, at any rate? I’m going out.”
“Yes; we need stay no longer,” said the innkeeper complacently. “The whole place will be a furnace in a minute or two.”
“Now!” said Cyril to the old man.
“We mustn’t open the shutter until the place is well alight below,” was the answer, “for they may dash in to see how things are going. But we can get the ropes ready. You understand that you will have to cross the falls?”
“Like St Gabriel?”
“Just so, and by his path. Well, I can only take two across at once, and it will need both you and me to get the lame lady over. Shall I take her first, or the other woman and the child?”
“The King must go first, of course,” said the Queen, when the question was translated to her. “Sophie, I put him in your charge.”
Poor Fräulein von Staubach, who was already trembling at the thought of the perilous transit, displayed no delight in the honourable pre-eminence thus thrust upon her; but the smoke, which was now pouring up into the loft through the hole, was so unpleasant that she did not attempt to hang back. The old man fastened a rope round her waist, and another round the little King, and told her to knot them together when he brought the child to her. Then he opened the shutter, and climbing out on the sill, let himself drop apparently into the raging waters. He seemed to find some foothold, however, for he stood firmly with the torrent washing round his knees, and told Cyril to help out Fräulein von Staubach. In those few moments the poor lady tasted the bitterness of death. Kissing the Queen’s hand, and bestowing a farewell embrace on the little King, she allowed Cyril to help her mount on the window-sill; but there her courage gave way. The sight of the foaming water was too much for her, and, with a scream, she tried to precipitate herself again into the room. But the rotten wood of the sill was displaced by her sudden movement, and she fell on the outside, and remained suspended for a moment, Cyril holding desperately to her wrists, until the old man succeeded in catching her and guiding her feet to his own foothold. Then he led her promptly through the water round the corner of the tower out of sight, and apparently into the very heart of the torrent, returning again alone for the little King. The Queen had tied her handkerchief over the child’s eyes that he might not be frightened by the falling water, and Cyril lowered him successfully out of the window into Giorgei’s arms.
“Shut the window and wait for me!” shouted the old man, as he disappeared again round the corner. “I shall not be five minutes; but you could never get through alone.”
Cyril closed the shutter immediately and returned into the room. The smoke was pouring up through the hole, and red tongues of flame were beginning to mingle with it, leaping up and apparently trying to catch the edges of the flooring. The Queen was sitting on the ground, and Cyril asked her to stand up for a moment that he might fasten the rope round her waist. Putting her hand on the floor to help herself to rise, she drew it back with a little scream, and then smiled.