Adamo catches sight of the crimson glare reflected upon the fountain.  He looks up at the tower—­he sees the flames.  A look of horror comes into his round black eyes.  Then, with a twitch, settling his gun firmly upon his shoulder, he rushes to the unlocked door and flings it wide open.

“Pipa!  Wife!  Angelo!” Adamo shouts down the stone passage connecting the tower with the villa where they slept.  “Wake up!  The tower is on fire!  Fire!  Fire!”

As Adam opened his mouth, the rush of hot air, pent upon the winding stair, drawn downward by the draught from the open door, catches his breath.  He staggers against the wall.  Then the strong man shook himself together—­again he shouts, “Pipa!  Pipa! rise!”

Without waiting for an answer, putting his hand over his mouth, Adamo charges up the stone stairs—­up to the marchesa’s door.  Her room is on fire.

“I must save her!  I must save her!  I will think of Pipa and the children afterward.”

Each step Adamo takes upward, the heat grows fiercer, the smoke that pours down denser.  Twice he had slipped and almost fallen, but he battles bravely with the heat and blinding smoke, and keeps his footing.

Now Adamo is on the landing of the first floor—­Adamo blinded, his head reeling—­but lifting his strong limbs, and firm broad feet, he struggles upward.  He has reached the marchesa’s door.  The place is marked by a chink of fire underneath.  Adamo passes his hand over the panel; it is unconsumed, the fire drawing the other way out by the window.

“O God! if the door is bolted!  I shall drop if I am not quick.”  Adamo’s fingers were on the lock.  “The door is bolted!  Blessed Virgin, help me!”

He unslings his unloaded gun—­he had forgotten it till then—­and, tightly seizing it in his strong hands, he flings the butt end against the lock.  The wood is old, the bolt is loose.

“Holy Jesus!  It yields!  It opens!”

Overcome by the rush of fiery air, again Adamo staggers.  As he lifts his hands to raise the hair, which, moist from heat, clings to his forehead, his fingers strike against a medal of the Virgin he wore round his naked throat.

“Mother of God, help me!” A desperate courage seizes him; he rushes in—­all before him swims in a red mist.  “Help me, Madonna!” comes to his parched lips.  “O God, where is the marchesa?”

A puff of wind from the open door for an instant raised the smoke and sparks; in that instant Adamo sees a dark heap lying on the floor close to the door.  It is the marchesa.  “Is she dead or alive?” He cannot stop to tell.  He raises her.  She lay within his arms.  Her dark dress, though not consumed, strikes hot against his chest.  Not an instant is to be lost.  The fresh rush of air up the stairs has fanned the flames.  Every moment they are rising higher.  They redden on the dark rafters of the ceiling.  The sparks fly about in dazzling clouds.  Adamo is on the threshold.