They were busy with the governor's house and the military squares and the old fort. The streets were cleared up a little. Houses had been painted and whitewashed. Stores and shops spread out their attractions, booths were flying gay colors and showing tempting eatables. All along the river was the stir of active life. People stayed later in the streets these warm evenings and sat on stoops chatting. Young men and maids planned pleasures and sails on the river and went to bed gay and light-hearted. Was there any place quite like Old Detroit? Early one morning while the last stars were lingering in the sky and the east was suffused with a faint pink haze, a scarlet spire shot up that was not sunrise. No one remarked it at first. Then a broad flash that might have been lightning but was not, and a cry on the still air startled the sleepers. "Fire! Fire!" Suddenly all was terror. There had been no rain in some time, and the inflammable buildings caught like so much tinder. From the end of St. Anne's street up and down it ran, the dense smoke sometimes hiding the flames. Like the eruption of a great crater the smoke rose thick, black, with here and there a tongue of flame that was frightful. The streets were so narrow and crowded, the appliances for fighting the terrible enemy so limited, that men soon gave up in despair. On and on it went devouring all within its reach. Shop keepers emptied their stores, hurried their stocks down to the wharf, and filled the boats. Furniture, century-old heirlooms, were tumbled frantically out of houses to some place of refuge as the fire swept on, carried farther and farther. Daylight and sunlight were alike obscured. Frantic people ran hither and thither, children were gathered in arms, and hurried without the palisades, which in many instances were burned away. And presently the inhabitants gave way to the wildest despair. It was a new and terrible experience. The whole town must go. Jeanne had been sleeping soundly, and in the first uproar listened like one dazed. Was it an Indian assault, such as her father had feared presently? Then the smoke rushed into every crack and crevice. "Oh, what is it, what is it?" she cried, flinging her door open wide. "Oh, Mam'selle," cried Margot, "the street is all aflame. Run! run! Antoine has taken the children." Already the streets were crowded. St. Anne's was a wall of fire. One could hardly see, and the roar of the flames was terrific, drowning the cries and shrieks. "Come, quick!" Margot caught her arm. "Pani! Pani!" She darted back into the house. "Pani," she cried, pulling at her. "Oh, wake, wake! We must fly. The town is burning up." "Little one," said Pani, "nothing shall harm thee." "Come!" Jeanne pulled her out with her strong young arms, and tried to slip a gown over the shaking figure that opposed her efforts.