His
shaggy body whizzed across the scarlet pattern of embers; then
shot into the air. Straight as a flung spear he flew; hurtling
through the flame-fringed billows of smoke.
Against the shut window he crashed, with the speed of a catapult.
Against it he crashed; and clean through it, into the hell of
smoke and fire and strangulation inside the shack.
His head had smashed the strong cross-piece of wood and dried
putty and had crumpled it like so much wet paper. His giant
shoulders had ripped the window-frame clean of its screws. Into
the burning room spun Lad, amid a hail of broken glass and
splintered wood.
To the fire-eaten floor he was hurled, close to his cowering and
whimpering mate. He reeled to his feet, and stood there, shoulder
to shoulder with Lady. His work was done.
And, yet, it was not in Sunnybank Lad's nature to be such a fool
as is the usual melodrama hero. True, he had come to share Lady's
fate, if he could not rescue her. Yet, he would not submit tamely
to death, until every resource had been tried.
He glanced at the door.
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