ing faces, women's and girls' and boys', that were constantly being augmented by others who were racing along the road to the fire—the men were still in the village; he could see a black knot of them down by the creek gathered around the little fireball.
Varge's eyes came back to the lawn. A detail of convicts had evidently been told off to do the work that the guards, who had arrived with the warden, had begun. Back and forth they went, some singly, carrying chairs and lighter articles, others in groups of two and three staggering under heavier pieces of furniture—all piling their loads well down the lawn out of reach of even the most ambitious sparks. And now, amongst them, directing them, he caught a glimpse of golden hair, a little form in fluttering white—she turned suddenly, looking upward, her face raised toward him—and then a heavy, curling wave of smoke engulfed him again and settled between them.
A cheer, more a stifled gurgle, echoed, along the line behind him—a dripping bucket was thrust into his hand.
He raised himself to his feet now, bracing himself as best he could on the precarious footing, and shot the contents of the bucket over a glowing patch of shingle. The one chance was to keep the fire from creeping any further up the roof of the house than it had already come—and that chance looked slim enough—even with a stream from the fire-tub when it came, it seemed as though everything, would go, for the fire, fed by the blazing kitchen, must already have worked its way into the lower rooms at the rear.
They came fast now, at barely half-minute intervals, the buckets—a full one pushed into his hand almost as
