A little later, when the hot breath of the fire seemed trying to reach through the door to him, he heard a voice. It was followed by a crash that drove the door inward.
Chip Merriwell, head and shoulders wrapped round with a sleigh robe soaked in melted snow, groped into the room; he had come through the fire-filled stairway with it round him; he had dared the fury of the flames to reach and help the Duke, when Carson and Avery, and all the Duke’s own followers, refused the risk, claiming that whoever tried it would be burned to death. The stairs were like a furnace.
“There’s the hall yet,” Chip gasped. “Here!”
“My feet and hands are tied!” the Duke shouted.
Chip got his knife out and cut the cords.
“Here!” he panted. “Can you walk? I’ll help you. Pull your coat up around your head. The hall here is free yet, and we can reach one of the windows.”
“It’s Merriwell!” said the Duke, bewildered.
He had been thinking Chip had sent him there, and he wondered about this; yet it was dull wonder, and a very active thankfulness. No one rejects the hand that is stretched out to save.
He did not need Chip’s aid; he even scrambled ahead, along the hall, driven by fear; and he was at one of the windows, smashing it, when Chip came up. He was about to throw himself out through the window.
“No!” said Chip. “We can take time; we’re safe now, unless the house falls. The fire is following, but we’re well ahead of it here. I’ve got the driving lines from the sleigh for ropes.”