"So much the better," said Jack. "It gives us time. Forward!"
They reached the gallery and the little step-ladder that led to a door that opened upon the roof, Gabriel preceding with his burden. There was another rush up the staircase without the court-room, but this time there was no yielding in the door; the earthquake that had shaken the foundations and settled the walls, had sealed it firmly.
Gabriel was first to step out on the roof, carrying Jack Hamlin. But, as he did so, another thrill ran through the building, and he dropped on his knees to save himself from falling, while the door closed smartly behind him. In another moment the shock had passed, and Gabriel, putting down his burden, turned to open the door for the sheriff. But, to his alarm, it did not yield to his pressure; the earthquake had sealed it as it had the door below, and Joe Hall was left a prisoner.
It was Gabriel's turn to hesitate and look at his companion. But Jack was gazing into the street below.
Then he looked up and said, "We must go on now, Gabriel,—for—for they've got a ladder!"
Gabriel rose again to his feet and lifted the wounded man. The curve of the domed roof was slight; in the center, on a rough cupola or base, the figure of Justice, fifteen feet high, rudely carved in wood, towered above them with drawn sword and dangling scales. Gabriel reached the cupola and crouched behind it, as a shout arose from the street below that told he was discovered. A few shots were fired; one bullet imbedded itself in the naked blade of the goddess, and another with cruel irony shattered the equanimity of her Balance.
"Unwind the cord from me," said Hamlin.
Gabriel did so.
"Fasten one end to the chimney or the statue."
But the chimney was leveled by the earthquake, and even the statue was trembling on its pedestal. Gabriel secured the rope to an iron girder of the skylight, and, crawling on the roof, dropped it cautiously over the gable. But it was several feet too short—too far for a cripple to drop. Gabriel crawled back to Hamlin.
"You must go first," he said quietly. "I will hold the rope over the gable. You can trust me."
Without waiting for Hamlin's reply, he fastened the rope under his arms and half lifted, half dragged him to the gable. Then, pressing his hand silently, he laid himself down and lowered the wounded man safely to the ground. He had recovered the rope again, and, crawling to the cupola, was about to fasten the line to the iron girder, when something slowly rose above the level of the roof beyond him. The uprights of a ladder!
The Three Voices had got tired of waiting a reply to their oft reiterated question, and had mounted the ladder by way of forcing an answer at the muzzles of their revolvers. They reached the level of the roof, one after another, and again propounded their inquiry. And then, as it seemed to their awe-stricken fancy, the only figure there—the statue of Justice—awoke to their appeal. Awoke! leaned toward them; advanced its awful sword and shook its broken balance, and then, toppling forward, with one mighty impulse came down upon them, swept them from the ladder and silenced the Voices forever! And from behind its pedestal Gabriel arose, panting, pale, but triumphant.
CHAPTER XLIII.
IN TENEBRIS SERVARE FIDEM.
Although a large man, Gabriel was lithe and active, and dropped the intervening distance where the rope was scant, lightly, and without injury. Happily the falling of the statue was looked upon as the result of another earthquake shock, and its disastrous effect upon the storming party for a while checked the attack. Gabriel lifted his half-fainting ally in his arms, and, gaining the friendly shelter of the ditch, in ten minutes was beyond the confines of One Horse Gulch, and in the shadow of the pines of Conroy's Hill. There were several tunnel openings known only to him. Luckily the first was partly screened by a fall of rock loosened by the earthquake from the hill above, and, satisfied that it would be unrecognized by any eye less keen than his own, Gabriel turned into it with his fainting burden. And it was high rime. For the hemorrhage from Jack Hamlin's wound was so great that that gentleman, after a faint attempt to wave his battered hat above his disheveled curls, suddenly succumbed, and lay as cold and senseless and beautiful as a carved Apollo.
Then Gabriel stripped him, and found an ugly hole in his thigh that had narrowly escaped traversing the femoral artery, and set himself about that rude surgery which he
