But, oh, it was a glorious suicide! Compared to it the love-sacrifices of a host of Antonys and Abelards and Romeos are but petty things.

Indeed, its nearest approach in real life was perhaps Moore's idiotically beautiful boast: Through the fiery furnace your steps I'll pursue; To find you and save you:--or perish there, too! The great dog gathered himself for the insane hero-deed.

His shaggy body whizzed across the scarlet pattern of embers; then shot into the air.

Straight as a flung spear he flew; hurtling through the flame-fringed billows of smoke.
Against the shut window he crashed, with the speed of a catapult.
Against it he crashed; and clean through it, into the hell of smoke and fire and strangulation inside the shack.
His head had smashed the strong cross-piece of wood and dried putty and had crumpled it like so much wet paper.

His giant shoulders had ripped the window-frame clean of its screws.