I’se done it, Mars’ George, jes’ ’s you tole me. You done trus’ ’Lijah, an’ he warn’t a-gwine to give up.
‘Whiter dan sno-o-ow! Swing low!’”
Yes, old ’Lijah, your chariot is swinging low for you, very low.
“Comin’ fer to carry me”—
The thick smoke rolls out heavily through the window overhead. The firemen keep a steady stream playing through the broken panes, and fight fiercely with their axes to reach him. It grows so hot that the people in the opposite windows hold their hands before their faces, while they watch.
Still nearer swings the great roaring chariot of fire. Lower and lower droops the faithful head upon the black, scorched hands.
His lips were still moving faintly, and he was still whispering, “Swing low, swing low, swing low,” when crash! came a burly figure, his face blackened with smoke and his rubber coat dripping with water, straight in through the window. Without a word he seized ’Lijah firmly around the waist and raised himself upright on the window-sill; then looking upward he shouted, hoarsely, “Haul away!”
