There were a few prints that she had found in the
same way, but no oils or water colors or ornaments. She despised the
second-rate, and the best of these was rarely to be bought for a song even
at auction.
She sighed as she reflected that if obliged to flee to the hills there was
practically nothing she could save beyond the contents of her bags; but at
least she could remain with her treasures until the last minute, and she
pinned the curtains across the small windows and lit several candles.
Between the blasts of dynamite the street was very quiet. She could hear
the measured tread of the sentry as he passed, a member of the Citizens'
Patrol, like her brother. Suddenly she heard a shot, and extinguishing the
candles hastily she peered out of a window from behind the curtains. The
sentry was pounding on a door opposite with the butt of his rifle. It was
the home of an eccentric old bachelor who possessed a fine collection of
ceramics and a cellar of vintage wine.
The door opened with obvious reluctance and the head of Mr. Andrew Bennett
appeared.
"What you doin' here?" shouted the sentry. "Haven't all youse been told
three hours ago to light out for the hills? Git out--"
"But the fire hasn't crossed Van Ness Avenue. I prefer--"
"Your opinion ain't asked. Git out."
"I call that abominable tyranny."
"Git out or I'll shoot. We ain't standin' no nonsense.
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