He paused but an instant on the roof of the piazza, to shout to Fischer, then seized in his hand a rope that some were vainly trying to toss up to the window. That rope Mark took in his teeth; ran his eye up the long rainspout on the wall; and an instant later gave a spring.
“Take care!” shouted one of the cadets, who saw his purpose. “It’s hot!”
Hot? It burned his hands to the bone, but what did Mark care? Again and again he seized it, again and again with his mighty arms he jerked himself upward, gripping the pipe between his knees, gripping the rope like death, higher and higher!
How the crowd gasped and trembled! He reached the first floor, halfway. He might have climbed that on a ladder, if he had only thought. But it was too late now. On! on! The smoke curled about him and choked him, hid him from view; bright flames leaped out from the seething windows and enveloped him.
“His clothes are afire!” shouted one. “Oh, heavens!”
Out of the smoke he came. Tongues of fire were starting at his trousers, at the end of his coat, getting larger, climbing higher, upon him. And still on he went, his flesh raw, his lungs hot and dry, his strength failing him. And ever about was the fluttering of white, a signal of distress that nerved him to clutch the burning iron yet once again.
Fischer was leaning from the window, straining every nerve, almost hanging by his knees, with outstretched hands. Mallory was climbing, fainting, almost unconscious, still gazing up and gasping. And the crowd could not make a move.
And then an instant later it was over. They saw Fischer give a sudden convulsive clutch beneath him; they saw the gallant plebe totter and sway, cling an instant more, and then, without uttering a sound, plunge downward like a flaming shot and strike with a thud upon the mattress below. But Fischer held the rope!