"That's seven. Fainted. Wants air.... Still alive."
They all shouted to him. "Don't go back, sir. There's no more. You've got 'em all out now. Oh, sir, don't go back."
But he went, gasping for breath, and muttering, "May be another. P'raps there's another. Better see."
He had got to the middle of the room when the floor gave way under him; and almost at the same moment there was a crash and the whole roof fell in. He went down amid the sudden wreck, down to a narrow couch of wood and stone, where he lay and still could think. He was pinned with an iron beam across his chest, in darkness, with the roar of the flames just above his head; smashed, mangled, roasting; but still full of a joy and hope that obliterated pain. He whispered faintly: "O God the Father and God the Holy Ghost, accept this my expiation."
And he whispered again.
"This fire has cleansed me. O Christ, take me to Thy bosom, white and spotless as the driven snow."
That was his last thought. There came another crash, a rending pang, and peace.