the morning sunshine; the curious fretwork
shadows of that great flotilla of deserted ships. But there was
something more; something startlingly unnatural; a great pillar of black
vapor--beneath it a livid red thing that leaped and grew.

"Good God! The town's afire!" cried Benito.

CHAPTER XXVI

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

Benito's first thought was of Alice. He had left her sleeping. Perhaps
she had not yet awakened, for the morning was young. Adrian had gone to
San Jose the previous afternoon. His wife, his sister and her child
would be alone.

Benito sprang upon his horse; the others followed. In less than half an
hour they crossed Market street and were galloping down Kearny toward
the Square. At California street they were halted by a crowd, pushing,
shouting, elbowing this way and that without apparent or concerted
purpose. Above the human babel sounded a vicious crackle of burning wood
like volleys of shots from small rifles. Red and yellow flames shot high
and straight into the air. Now and then a gust of wind sent the licking
fire demon earthward, and before its hot breath people fled in panic.

Benito flung his reins to a bystander. He was scarcely conscious of his
movements; only that he was fighting for breath in a surging,
suffocating press of equally excited human beings. From this he finally
emerged, hatless, disheveled, into a small cleared space filled with
flying sparks and stifling heat. Across it men rushed feverishly
carrying pails of water. Dennison's Exchange on Kearny street, midway of
the block facing Portsmouth Square, was a roaring furnace. Flame sprang
like red, darting tongues from its windows and thrust impertinent
fingers here and there through the sloping roof.

Somewhere--no one seemed to know precisely--a woman screamed, "My baby!
Save my baby!" The sound died to a moan, was stilled. Benito, passing a
bucket along the line, stared, white faced, at his neighbor. "What was
that?" he asked.

"Quien sabe?" said the other, "hurry along with that pail. The roof's
falling."

It was true. The shingle-covered space above the burning building
stirred gently, undulating like some wind-ruffled pond. The mansard
windows seemed to bow to the watchers, then slowly sink forward. With a
roar, the whole roof sprang into fire, buckled, collapsed; the veranda
toppled. Smoke poured from the eight mansard windows of the Parker
House, next door. South of the Parker House were single-storied
buildings