A startled exclamation from Bob Ridley roused him from his rhapsody.

“Benito, come here!  Look!  What the devil is that?”

From their eminence the town of San Francisco was plainly visible; tall, thin shafts of smoke rising straight and black from many chimneys; the blue bay shimmering in 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, one of wood, another of adobe; the first was a restaurant; over its roof several foreign-looking men spread rugs and upon them poured a red liquid.