However, Lebeau raised himself, and strove to collect his ideas and strength. He was losing great quantities of blood, but the welfare of Esther was the only clear thought which remained amidst the baleful giddiness which had invaded his brain. Save Esther! But how? Bear her away in his arms? He could not do it. Had he even the strength left to crawl to the stairs, drag himself down and through the alley in search of help? Yes, there was no alternative. But in the mean time would not the fire reach her in its swift course? Would not the smoke asphyxiate the poor child? Stimulated by this alarming thought, the unhappy man began to drag himself by his bruised and bleeding hands. Every now and then he was forced to pause, exhausted, fainting, believing that the end had come. "Esther!"--that name alone revived him. His daughter! his child! No, he would not leave her to die like that. As for himself, what mattered it? But _she_, so young, so beautiful,--she, for whom life was so full of promise! Thus he advanced step by step, lowering himself from stair to stair amidst the most atrocious agony. [Illustration] But when he reached the foot of the stairs he discovered that the wind had closed the door which Lord Mowbray had left open. He stretched out his hand and tried to raise himself upon his knee. He could not do it. Horrible mockery! So simple an action,--to raise a latch, thrust open a door; but he could not do even so much, he who had accomplished such extraordinary feats! And salvation lay beyond that door, for it seemed to him--or was it an illusion?--that he caught the sound of voices in the court. He strove to raise his voice, but no sound issued from his lips. Then he sank down in an inert mass, his body obstructing the door which he would have given the last hour of his existence to open! Lebeau had not been mistaken; there were voices in the alley-way. Perhaps, had he been able to attempt one supreme effort, he would have recognized the voice of his compatriot, the surgeon of the poor, and that of Francis Monday. In fact, they were continuing their work of succoring the unfortunates, upon which they had been engaged for several hours. They had relieved more than one wounded sufferer, had snatched from the flames more than one wretch lying at death's door. They pursued their course like soldiers of duty and humanity, soiled with blood and mud, their eyelashes singed, their clothing in disorder. Many times had the flying bullets grazed them. Many times had they been insulted and menaced. They had seen one of their number crushed by the fall of a blazing wall, but their zeal had not been dampened; and it was Frank who, in a sort of heroic frenzy, now urged on his companions. It was rumored in the crowd that behind the flaming ruins of the Langdale establishment was a group of dwellings, now wrapped in fire, which had not been evacuated by the inhabitants.