her favourite swain, but at the first alarm the stage was cleared in a twinkling, the faithful shepherd showing a remarkably clean pair of heels as he led the van. A half-circle of increasing fire now surrounded her; hot embers and burning tags of gauze and paper began to fill the air, but it was still possible to reach her, and in a sudden compassion for her pathetic isolation Hautepierre climbed up to the stage and gained her side. So far she had been silent, either through terror or a resolution equal to his own, but seeing him come towards her she cried out piteously.
"Hush, mademoiselle," he said gently, "do not break down, you who have been so brave. I cannot save you, but I will stay with you to the end."
"I cannot die bound," she cried. "Cut this rope with your sword, for the love of heaven."
His sword was useless: one cannot cut silk thread with a needle, and to his unaccustomed fingers the simple knots were formidable, put as he gradually unwound the coils she grew calm again.
"Is there no escape that way, monsieur?" she demanded, indicating the reeking auditorium. "But it was noble of you to come! I do thank you."
"The outlets are all blocked," he replied. "One could not breathe for ten seconds in that air now." It was true: by one of the peculiarities that mark great catastrophes, the burning stage formed the only refuge-ground in the whole theatre, for the volume of smoke, carried high above their heads, lay in a solid bank beyond, where it had already obliterated not only every sign of life but every sound. The shrieks, the prayers and all the pandemonium of terror that had reigned a few short minutes before were smothered down, and nothing punctuated the constant bull-roaring of the flame but the intermittent undernote of crackling wood.
