... That's six. She has fainted--but she's
alive."
On the balcony the red-hot metal had burned his feet nearly to the
bone, his blistered hands were big and soft as boxing gloves, even the
air in his lungs was on fire. While he crawled and groped between the
beds for the last of the children, the floor began to bulge and sag,
and fragments of the plaster ceiling rained upon his head and back.
"That's seven. Fainted. Wants air.... Still alive."
They all shouted to him. "Don't go back, sir. There's no more. You've
got 'em all out now. Oh, sir, don't go back."
But he went, gasping for breath, and muttering, "May be another.
P'raps there's another. Better see."
He had got to the middle of the room when the floor gave way under
him; and almost at the same moment there was a crash and the whole
roof fell in. He went down amid the sudden wreck, down to a narrow
couch of wood and stone, where he lay and still could think. He was
pinned with an iron beam across his chest, in darkness, with the roar
of the flames just above his head; smashed, mangled, roasting; but
still full of a joy and hope that obliterated pain. He whispered
faintly: "O God the Father and God the Holy Ghost, accept this my
expiation.
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