There were men, boys, engines, ladders, furniture, all heaped together in confusion; but the smoke and flame rolled forth with renewed anger after their momentary check, and all was blank again.  She cried for help, but her voice was lost in the universal din.  The heat became intense, the flame knocked at her very door to demand admittance; she heard its fiery tongue flap against the panels, a few moments more and its scorching arms would clasp her in their embrace of death.  She knelt one moment, her soul was in that prayer; she rushed again with almost hopeless agony to the window.  O, joy! and yet how terrible!  That moment when the flame relaxed to gain new energy, a fireman had discovered her frail form in the glare of the light.  He did not hesitate an instant; his soul was made of such stern stuff as common minds cannot appreciate.  He raised the first ladder within his reach against the wall—­a miserable thing, already half-burned,—­and springing on it, ascended amid the flames.

He had scarcely reached the top of the third story, when he felt it bend beneath him; he heard the shriek above, the cries below, and turning, sprang to the ground unharmed, as his treacherous support fell crackling in the blaze.  A shout of joy arose at his wonderful escape, and now they poured a constant, steady stream beneath the window at which May’s face was discovered by all.  A moment, and another ladder, much stouter than the first, was raised.  The undismayed fireman ran up its trembling rounds, amid the stifling smoke, the eager flames wrapping themselves around him as he passed; a moment more, and he had reached the terrified May, caught her hand and lifted her to his side.  She gazed a second on his speaking face—­there was a world of meaning in it; she asked no question—­he uttered not a word, but by his eye and hand guided her down that fiery, dizzy path, so full of danger and of death.  A fresh burst of flame defied the stream of water; it flashed around them while all below was as silent as the grave, naught heard but the hissing of the blaze and the crackling of the timbers.  May would have fallen, shrinking from the embrace of the relentless flame; but the fireman caught her in his arms and leaped to the ground just as the second ladder fell.  O, then there were cries of wild delight, and with renewed vigor the dauntless men worked against the fire.  May’s friends came crowding around her; her father clasped her in his trembling arms, with a whispered “O, May!  May! you are safe!—­the old house may burn now!” and the mother shied such tears as only thankful mothers weep.

But the noble fireman was gone; in vain Hal endeavored to gain some particulars concerning him, from the members of the company to which he belonged.  They told him that not a single black ball had been cost against him, although he was a stranger to them all, save the foreman for he carried his claim to confidence in his honest face.  He always pays his dues, never shrank from duty, was kind and gentlemanly—­what more could they desire.  The foreman himself was obstinately silent concerning the history of his friend, muttering his name in such an undertone that Hal could not understand it.  On the morrow, all New York was echoing with his praises.  So brave, so rashly brave a thing had not been done in years, though every week the noble firemen hazarded their lives for the safety of the city.