The lake had been burning for nearly three minutes. Suddenly Fandor made up his mind; throwing off his coat, the brave young man ran to the bank of the lake, whose waters were still blazing; his face was pale, but a look of determination flashed in his eyes as he plunged into the torrent of fire! “I will swim under water,” the daring fellow told himself. “No, I cannot let Elisabeth perish so; if she is to die, I will die near her, with her!” It was a heroic but a mad venture. The channel separating the mainland from the island was broad, and half way across, he had no breath left and must at any cost come to the surface, magnificent swimmer though he was. The water was still blazing. Barely had he time to snatch a mouthful of mephitic, scarce breathable air, when he must dive under again on pain of being burnt alive. “Ten strokes more!... five more ... three more!”—his knees grazed the bottom, he had reached the shore! Panting, breathless, Fandor climbed on the bank, grievously hurt, bleeding, half dead; but he was near his goal. He cried, “Elisabeth!”—and in the distance, his eyes still dazzled with the glare of the fire, the journalist seemed to see a woman’s form. He staggered towards her, a haggard, terrifying figure. But no sooner was he near the girl, for it was really she, flying with Lady Beltham before the advancing flames—she had taken refuge there—than he started back, struck with consternation. Lady Beltham had not yet had time to speak to Elisabeth Dollon, and the girl, seeing this dreadful apparition rise before her, Fandor, pale and bleeding, had screamed out in frantic terror: “Fantômas! Fantômas! it is Fantômas!” “Where is he gone!” Lady Beltham eagerly questioned M. Havard and Tom Bob, who had run up on hearing the cries. She had not recognized Fandor, but on the other hand she knew it was not Fantômas who had shown himself. Instinctively she pointed in the direction in which the journalist had taken to flight. Thereupon followed a veritable man-hunt, duly organized. Blowing a shrill whistle, M. Havard called up his men, scattered more or less everywhere about the island. “Fantômas is there” he yelled, “he has just swum over.... Dead or alive he must be taken, dead or alive!” Not a clump of trees but was searched. The waters of the lake, no longer aflame, looked dark and gloomy as before, clouds of soot made the air oppressive to breathe, the only light to help the officers in their frantic search came from some trees that were still burning on the bank of the lake. From all sides sounded cries, shouts, exclamations. For Fandor was now in full flight before the pursuing myrmidons of the law.