The flames were now leaping through the Cathedral aisles, devouring the straw beds as if they were tinder.  In vain Father Meraut ordered them to leave him.  For once his children refused to obey.  Somehow they got him to his feet, and he, for their sakes making a superhuman effort, succeeded in staggering between them, using their lithe young bodies as crutches.  How they reached the door of the north transept they never knew, but reach it they did, before the burning flames.  And there a new terror appeared.

The people of Rheims, infuriated by the long abuse which they had suffered, stood with guns pointed at the wounded and helpless Germans whom the doctors and nurses had succeeded in getting so far on the way to safety.  Above the roar of flames rose the roar of angry voices.  “It is the Germans who burn our Cathedral.  Let them die with it,” shouted one.

Between the helpless Germans and the angry mob; facing their guns, towered the figures of the Abby and the Archbishop!  “If you kill them, you must first kill us,” cried the Archbishop.  Kill the Archbishop and the Abbe’!  Unthinkable!  The guns were immediately lowered, and the work of rescue went on.

Out of the north door crept Father Meraut, supported by his brave children.  “Bravo!  Bravo!” shouted the crowd, and then hands that would have killed Germans willingly, were stretched in instant sympathy and helpfulness to the wounded French soldier and his brave children.  Two men made a chair of their arms, and Father Meraut was carried in safety to the square before the Cathedral, Pierre and Pierrette following close behind.  At the foot of the statue of Jeanne d’Arc they stopped to rest and change hands, and there, frantic with joy, Mother Meraut found them.

“A soldier of France—­wounded at the Marne!” shouted the crowd, and if he had been able to endure it, they would have borne him upon their grateful shoulders.  As it was, he was carried in no less grateful arms clear to Madame Coudert’s door, and there, lying upon an improvised stretcher, and attended by his wife and children, he rested from his journey, while Madame Coudert ran to prepare a cup of coffee for a stimulant.  From Madame Coudert’s door they watched the further destruction of the beautiful Cathedral which Mother Meraut had so often called the “safest place in Rheims.”  As it burned, a wonderful thing happened.  High above the glowing roof there suddenly flamed the blue fleur-de-lis of France!

“See!  See! " cried Mother Meraut.  “A Miracle!  The Lily of France!  Oh, surely it is a sign sent by the Bon Dieu to keep us from despair!”

“It is only the gas from an exploding shell, bursting in blue flame,” said her husband.  “Yet—­who knows?—­it may also be a true promise that France shall rise in beauty from its ruins.”

VII.  HOME AGAIN