He forgot the pain racking his arm; his brain grew clearer.  He reached his feet, lurching unsteadily toward Thayor, who sat by Alice who was sobbing hysterically.  The banker put out his left hand and covered Holcomb’s burned fist tenderly, his gaze still fixed on the leaping flames, but neither spoke.  The situation was too intense for words.

* * * * *

During this utter destruction not a man among the gang employed had put in an appearance.  This fact, in itself, was alarming; nor had one outside of these come to the rescue.  There was no doubt now that the general desertion had been as premeditated as the fire.  Who were the prime movers of this dastardly revenge remained still a mystery.

The housekeeper, the cook, the two maids and the valet—­all but Blakeman and Annette, who had awakened at the first alarm—­had made their escape in terror down the macadam road; they were just in time; this road—­the only open exit leading out from Big Shanty being now barred by flame.  Worse than all, this barrier of fire had widened so that now two roaring wings of burning timber extended from the very edge of the torrent in a vast semi-circle of flame—­sinister and impenetrable—­across the compound and far into the woods on the other side.  It was as if the last life boat had been launched from a sinking ship, leaving those who were too late to die!

Their only way out now lay through that trackless wilderness behind them.

Here was a situation far graver than the burning of Big Shanty.  The gray-haired man with his back against the hemlock realized this.  He still stood grimly watching the fire—­his ashen lips shut tight.

Big Shanty burned briskly; it crackled, blazed, puffed and roared, driven by a northeast wind.  The northeast wind was in league with the flames.  It was on hand; it had begun with the stables—­it had now nearly finished with the main camp.  The surrounding buildings—­the innumerable shelters for innumerable things—­made a poor display; they went too quickly.  It was the varnish in the main camp that went mad in flame—­rioting flames that swept joyously now in oily waves.  The northeast wind spared nothing.  It seemed to howl to the flames:  “Keep on—­I’ll back you—­I’m game until daylight.”

Walls, partitions, gables, roofs, ridge-poles, stuff in closets, furniture, luxuries, rugs, pictures, floors, clapboards, jewels, shingles, a grand piano, guns, gowns, books, money—­in twenty minutes became a glowing hole in the ground.  The destruction was complete; the heel of the northeast wind had stamped it flat.  Big Shanty camp had vanished.

The man braced against the trunk of the hemlock saw all this with the old, weary, haggard look in his eyes, yet not a syllable escaped his lips.  He saw the northeast wind drive its friend the fire straight into the thick timber of the wilderness; trees crackled, flared and gave up; others ahead of them bent, burst and went under—­the northeast wind had doomed them rods ahead; it swept—­it annihilated—­without quarter.  It scattered the half-clad group of refugees to shelter across Big Shanty Brook upon whose opposite shore, as yet untouched, they re-gathered to watch—­out of the way.