“Thank you, my young friend,” said the General, waving his hand towards me. But just as he had his foot on the step the distant sound of an alarm-bell, violently rung, came through the stillness.
“What is that?” cried the General.
“A fire at the village of Islettes,” said I. “Look! you can see the smoke above the trees!”
And, without any further speculation, off I ran towards the village. The General called after me, but I did not stop to listen.
However, before I had gone a hundred yards, the carriage rattled past me at a gallop. The General, evidently moved by a humane motive, was hastening, like myself, towards the scene of the catastrophe, where I soon arrived.
All the village was astir, and I found the General and his companion had taken command of the rustics, just as they would of an army on the field of battle.
The fire had broken out in the workshop of a cart-wright. The fiery element had attacked an adjacent shed full of wood, and threatened to reduce the neighboring house to ashes.
Now, at Islettes, fire-engines were unknown, and I need scarcely say that handing along little buckets of water from the river was by no means an effectual remedy.
“We must cut off the fire!” shouted the General.