Yet even as she met the act
with an exclamation of horror, Josephine saw Dunwody fling away his
weapons, run to the great doors and crash through them, apparently
bent upon reaching some point deep in the interior.
Others saw this, and joined in her cry of terror. The interior of
the hall, thus disclosed by the opening of the doors, seemed but a
mass of flames. An instant later, Dunwody staggered back, his arm
across his face. His hair was smoking, the mustaches half burned
from his lips. He gasped for breath, but, revived by air, drew his
coat across his mouth and once again dashed back. Josephine,
standing with hands clasped, her eyes filled with terror, expected
never to see him emerge alive.
He was scarcely more than alive when once more he came back,
blinded and staggering. This time arms reached out to him,
steadied him, dragged him from the gallery, through the enshrouding
smoke, to a place of safety.
He bore something shielded, concealed in his arms--something, which
now he carried tenderly and placed down away from the sight of
others, behind the shade of a protecting clump of shrubbery.
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