Prince and the cart were ready. From her discarded belongings Mrs. Meeker had salvaged three treasures, which she had stowed against the dashboard, a solio portrait of her late husband, a canary in a gilt cage, and a plated silver teapot. The body of the cart was clear, and the men placed the mattress there. The spread that covered the woman becoming disarranged, Pancha smoothed it into neatness, pausing to look with closer scrutiny into the marble face. It was so unlike the face she had seen before, rosy and smiling beneath the shade of modish hats, that no glimmer of recognition came to her. Chrystie was to her, as she was to the others, an unknown woman. Mrs. Meeker, even in this vital moment, knew again a stir of curiosity. "Who is she?" she said to the men. "Ain't you found anything up there to tell us where she belongs?" The doctor's voice crackled like pistol shots: "Good God, woman, we've not got time to find out who people _are_. Take her along--get a move on. It's getting d----d hot here." It was; the heat of the growing conflagration was scorching on their faces, the cinders falling like rain. "Get up there, Mrs. Meeker," Garland commanded; "on the front seat. You drive and Pancha and I'll walk alongside." The woman climbed up. The doctor, turning to go, gave his last orders: "Try and get her out of this--uptown--where there's air and room. Keep her as quiet as you can. You'll run up against doctors who'll help. Sorry I can't go along with you, but there'll be work for my kind all over the city today, and I got a girl across toward North Beach that I want to see after." He was off down the carriage drive almost colliding with a soldier, who came up on the run, a bayoneted musket in his hand, his face a blackened mask, streaming with sweat. At the sight of the cart he broke into an angry roar: "What are you standing round for? Do you want to be burnt? Get out. Don't you know the fire's coming? _Get out."_ They moved out and joined the vast procession of a city in exodus. For months afterward Pancha dreamed of that day--woke at night to a sense of toiling, onward effort, a struggling slow progress, accomplished amid a sea of faces all turned one way. The dream vision was not more prodigiously improbable than the waking fact--life, comfortable and secure, suddenly stripped of its garnishings, cut down to a single obsessing issue, narrowed to the point where the mind held but one desire--to be safe.