It was the lifeless body of our host, suspended directly in front of the more warlike of the two armored figures, the one brandishing an outthrust pike. Asher had been impaled on this fearsome weapon, whose long, spear-like tip had penetrated his breast and emerged, blood-caked, from between his shoulder blades. He hung there like a discarded marionette, arms adroop, knees buckled, head lolling forward.

“Stuck like a worm on a fishhook,” said Crockett. “He’s a goner, Poe—an’ you ’n’ me will be, too, unless we can figger out some way outta—” Gazing hurriedly about him, he suddenly exclaimed, “By God—that’ll do!”

Looking to see what had elicited this reaction, I perceived that Crockett was staring at the wooden display case containing the priceless anatomical model from the studio of the legendary Abbot Fontana. This article of furniture had thus far escaped the flames—though the intensity of the ambient heat had cracked its front panel of glass, behind which the flayed and partially dissected wax torso had begun to melt like a grotesque, anthropomorphic candle.

Springing to his feet, Crockett dashed to the cabinet; then stooped, threw his arms about its sides, and—with a grunt so loud that it could be heard above the crackling of the flames—raised it to the height of his chest. The muscular cords of his neck bulged with exertion as he carried the cabinet several yards away to the tall, Gothic window (whose voluminous curtains were now little more than twin sheets of flame) and heaved it through the crimson panes, which shattered outward with a splintering crash.

“Time to git up ’n’ git, Poe!” Crockett called to me—then turned and disappeared through the gaping hole he had created in the glass.

Scrambling to my feet, I hurried across the floor, climbed through the jagged opening in the shattered window and—after pausing for a moment on the exterior ledge—leapt down several yards and landed in the copious bushes that fringed the rear of the house.

Shaking in every limb, I hurriedly extricated myself from the entangling undergrowth, then staggered towards an open field that lay at some distance from the house. I sank to my knees, rolled onto my back, and lay spread-eagled in the grass, staring upwards at the blackness of the heavens, where shimmering stars commingled with the fiery embers that floated skyward from the blazing house.

Several moments elapsed before I was able to draw myself up into a sitting position. Employing my loose-hanging shirttail as a kind of towel, I wiped the moisture from my stinging eyes and looked about for Crockett. At first, I could see him nowhere. Gradually, however, I became cognizant of a sound drifting above the roar and crackle of the inferno. It was a hoarse male voice, emanating from a point somewhere off to my left. As I strained my ears to listen, I perceived that the voice was repeatedly shouting, “Miz Asher! Miz Asher!”