His hair was smoking, the mustaches half burned from his lips.

He gasped for breath, but, revived by air, drew his coat across his mouth and once again dashed back.

Josephine, standing with hands clasped, her eyes filled with terror, expected never to see him emerge alive.
He was scarcely more than alive when once more he came back, blinded and staggering.

This time arms reached out to him, steadied him, dragged him from the gallery, through the enshrouding smoke, to a place of safety.
He bore something shielded, concealed in his arms--something, which now he carried tenderly and placed down away from the sight of others, behind the shade of a protecting clump of shrubbery.

His breath, labored, sobbing, showed his distress.