Perhaps you are asking what of Mark, with Grace Fuller, the joy of his life, in peril. Mark was down in the long line, passing buckets like any dutiful plebe. He had heard Judge Fuller’s terrible warning, and had been quick to spring forward. But the watchful “tac” had had his eye on Mark, knowing his friendship for the girl. Lieutenant Allen did not mean to have his lines broken up in that way; there were others to attend to that rescue, and he ordered Mallory back to his place with a stern command that Mallory dared not disobey. Now he was standing like a warrior in chains amid the battle’s roar, watching with the rest, and trembling with horror and dread.
What if Fischer should fail—be beaten back? What if smoke should overcome him, and he should sink where he was? What if Grace Fuller——
And then, oh, how he did gasp for joy! And what a perfect roar of triumph rose from the anxious crowd. There was the gallant captain, smoke-stained and staggering, standing in a window on the top floor, holding in his arms a figure white as snow. The girl was safe!
But how was she to get down?
That was the dreadful thought that flashed over the trembling cadet. They stood irresolute, and so did the cadet in the window, hesitating at times when a second might mean the difference between life and death.
And yet who could advise him? The girl’s waving hair and dress would catch at the slightest flame; to try the roaring staircase was suicide. Then should he drop her? The crowd shuddered to think of that, yet what else could he do? There was no ladder to reach halfway. He must! He was going to!
Picture the state of Mark Mallory’s mind at that moment. Himself helpless, watching Fischer preparing for that horrible deed. He saw the cadet drag a half-blazing mattress from one of the rooms, laying it on the roof below. He heard the agonized shriek of the girl’s father, he pictured that lovely figure perhaps dying, certainly maimed for life. He saw Fischer passing the body through the window, his figure wreathed in smoke, with a setting of fire behind. And then, with a shout that was a perfect roar of command, Mark leaped forward.
“Stop! Stop!”
A thousand tacs could not hold him then; he was like a wild man. He saw a chance, a chance that no one dared. But he—what was he, compared with perfection, Grace Fuller?
He fairly tore a path up the ladder.