A mountain burning for weeks, and a woman lost on it; all the town turned out in an agony of search; the fires out one day, and a slow procession winding down the blank, charred slope, bearing something closely covered, that no one looked upon.
She sprang up in an agony of terror.
"Oh, Joy, _can't_ you walk?
We shall die here! We shall be burned to death!" At that moment a flaming branch fell hissing into a little pool at the bottom of the gully.

It passed so near them that it singed a lock of Gypsy's hair.
Joy crawled to her feet, fell, crawled up again, fell again.
Gypsy seized her in both arms, and dragged her across the gully.

Joy was taller than herself, and nearly as heavy.

How she did it she never knew.
Terror gave her a flash of that sort of strength which we sometimes find among the insane.
She laid Joy down in a corner of the ravine the furthest removed from the fire; she could not have carried her another inch.

Above and all around towered and frowned the rocks; there was not so much as a crevice opening between them; there was not a spot that Joy could climb.