Facing him, the coloured map of Pest-Buda in its gilt frame became lighter and lighter. The whitewashed wall of the room was covered with plans. A couch stood near the stove and this was all covered with papers.
Steps clattered outside in the silent morning. Occasionally the shadow of a passing head fell on the low window and then small round clouds ran over the paper under Christopher Ulwing’s pen. Others came and went. Time passed. All of a sudden many furious steps began running towards the Danube. The blades of straightened scythes sparkled in the sun.
The servants ran to the gate.
“What has happened?”
A voice answered back:
“They have hanged the Imperial Commissioner on a lamp post!”
“No—they have torn him to pieces....”
“They stabbed him on the boat-bridge.”
“Is he dead?” asked a late-comer.
The builder put his pen down. He stared at the window as if an awful face were grinning frightfully at him. “It has been coming for months. Now it has happened....” Without any reason he picked up his writings and laid them down again. He would have to get accustomed to this too. His crooked chin disappeared stiffly in the fold of his open collar and he resumed the addition of the numbers which aligned themselves in a long column on the paper.