A cloud of eddying smoke enveloped him. Then a gust of wind cleared the pall of vapour. The wretch was writhing. His clothes were smouldering as he lay helpless in the withering grass.
With a bound Denbigh cleared the shallow trench, and bending low rushed through the smoke. Burning ashes stung his face. What air he took in through his nose felt pungent and suffocating. The heat seemed to gnaw into his eyes.
How he covered that two hundred yards he never could explain, but at length, with a feeling of relief, he turned his broad back to the advancing flames and raised the now unconscious man from the ground. With almost superhuman strength he lifted the listless body upon his shoulder and began his bid for safety.
Almost blindly he ran till his gait slowed down almost to a halting walk.
