Chicago (Ill.) -- History -- To 1875 -- Fiction; Fires -- Fiction; Great Fire, Chicago, Ill., 1871 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
In the situation of supreme peril described in the last chapter, Dennis
stood a second helpless and hopeless. Christine rested a heavy burden
in his arms, happily unconscious. Breathing an agonized prayer to
heaven, he looked around for any possibility of escape. Just then an
express-wagon was driven furiously toward them, its driver seeking his
way out by the same path that Dennis had chosen. As he reached them
the man saw the hopeless obstruction, and wheeled his horses. As he
did so, quick as thought, Dennis threw Christine into the bottom of
the wagon, and, clinging to it, climbed into it himself. He turned
her face downward from the fire, and, covering his own, he crouched
beside her, trusting all now to God.
The driver urged his horses toward the lake, believing that his only
chance. They tore away through the blazing streets. The poor man was
soon swept from his seat and perished, but his horses rushed madly on
till they plunged into the lake.
At the sound of water Dennis lifted his head and gave a cry of joy.
It seemed that the hand of God had snatched them from death. Gently
he lifted Christine out upon the sands and commenced bathing her face
from the water that broke in spray at his feet. She soon revived and
looked around. In a voice full of awe and wonder she whispered, "Ah!
there is another world and another life, after all."
"Indeed there is, Miss Ludolph," said Dennis, supporting her on his
arm and bending over her, "but, thanks to a merciful Providence, you
are still in this one."
"How is it?" she said, with a bewildered air. "I do not understand.
The last I remember, we were surrounded by fire, you were despairing,
and it seemed that I died."
"You fainted, Miss Ludolph. But God as by a miracle brought us out of
the furnace, and for the present we are safe." After she had
sufficiently rallied from her excessive exhaustion and terror, he told
her how they escaped.
"I see no God in it all," she said; "only a most fortunate opportunity,
of which you, with great nerve and presence of mind, availed yourself.
To you alone, again and again this dreadful night, I owe my life."
"God uses us as His instruments to do His will. The light will come
to you by and by, and you will learn a better wisdom."
"In this awful conflagration the light has come. On every side I see
as in letters of fire, 'There is no God.' If it were otherwise these
scenes would be impossible. And any being permitting or causing the
evils and crimes this dreadful night has witnessed, I shall fear and
hate beyond the power of language to express."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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