ut one person in the Cathedral, and that person was their Father.
They had but one purpose--to get him out. Young as they were, they were
already well used to danger, and it scarcely occurred to them that they
were risking their lives. Certainly they were not afraid. When they
reached their Father's side, they found him vainly struggling to rise.

"Here we are, Father," shouted Pierre: "Lean on us!" He flew to one
side; Pierrette was already struggling to lift him on the other. As his
bed was the one farthest from the spot where the fire first appeared,
the doctors and nurses had sought to rescue those in greatest danger,
and so the children for the time being were alone in their effort to
save him.

The flames were now leaping through the Cathedral aisles, devouring the
straw beds as if they were tinder. In vain Father Meraut ordered them
to leave him. For once his children refused to obey. Somehow they got
him to his feet, and he, for their sakes making a superhuman effort,
succeeded in staggering between them, using their lithe young bodies as
crutches. How they reached the door of the north transept they never
knew, but reach it they did, before the burning flames. And there a new
terror appeared.

The people of Rheims, infuriated by the long abuse which they had
suffered, stood with guns pointed at the wounded and helpless Germans
whom the doctors and nurses had succeeded in getting so far on the way
to safety. Above the roar of flames rose the roar of angry voices. "It
is the Germans who burn our Cathedral. Let them die with it," shouted
one.

Between the helpless Germans and the angry mob; facing their guns,
towered the figures of the Abby and the Archbishop! "If you kill them,
you must first kill us," cried the Archbishop. Kill the Archbishop and
the Abbe'! Unthinkable! The guns were immediately lowered, and the work
of rescue went on.

Out of the north door crept Father Meraut, supported by his brave
children. "Bravo! Bravo!" shouted the crowd, and then hands that would
have killed Germans willingly, were stretched in instant sympathy and
helpfulness to the wounded French soldier and his brave children. Two
men made a chair of their arms, and Father Meraut was carried in safety
to the square before the Cathedral, Pierre and Pierrette following
close behind. At the foot of the statue of Jeanne d'Arc they stopped to
rest and change hands, and there, frantic with joy, Mother Meraut found
them.

"A soldier