Morico.
He had awakened in the night and missed his boy. He had seen the fire;
indeed close enough that he could hear its roaring; and he knew
everything. The whole story was plain to him as if it had been told by
a revealing angel. The strength of his youth had come back to speed
him over the ground.

"Murderers!" he cried looking about him with hate in his face. He did
not know who had done it; no one knew yet, and he saw in every man he
looked upon the possible slayer of his child.

So here he stood over the prostrate figure; his old gray jeans hanging
loosely about him; wild eyed--with bare head clasped between his
claw-like hands, which the white disheveled hair swept over. Hosmer
approached again, offering gently to help him carry his son away.

"Stand back," he hurled at him. But he had understood the offer. His
boy must not be left to burn like a log of wood. He bent down and
strove to lift the heavy body, but the effort was beyond his strength.
Seeing this he stooped again and this time grasped it beneath the
arms; then slowly, draggingly, with halting step, began to move
backward.

The fire claimed no more attention. All eyes were fastened upon this
weird picture; a sight which moved the most callous to offer again and
again assistance, that was each time spurned with an added defiance.

Hosmer stood looking on, with folded arms; moved by the grandeur and
majesty of the scene. The devouring element, loosed in its awful
recklessness there in the heart of this lonely forest. The motley
group of black and white standing out in the great red light,
powerless to do more than wait and watch. But more was he stirred to
the depths of his being, by the sight of this human tragedy enacted
before his eyes.

Once, the old man stops in his backward journey. Will he give over?
has his strength deserted him? is the thought that seizes every
on-looker. But no--with renewed effort he begins again his slow
retreat, till at last a sigh of relief comes from the whole watching
multitude. Morico with his burden has reached a spot of safety. What
will he do next? They watch in breathless suspense. But Morico does
nothing. He only stands immovable as a carved image. Suddenly there is
a cry that reaches far above the roar of fire and crash of falling
timbers: "_Mon fils! mon garcon!_" and the old man totters and falls
backward to earth, still clinging to the lifeless body of his son. All
hasten towards him. Hosmer reaches him