With frightened lamentations, people rushed out of the cellar. Little Christopher’s snow-white lips became distorted. The builder frowned as he used to do when contradicted by some fool. He went with long steps to the gate.
“No, no,” shrieked Christopher, and began to sob spasmodically. But old Ulwing listened to no one. He kicked the side door open. One of the caryatids was without an arm. Under him lay a heap of débris of crumbled whitewash and a huge hole gaped from the wall. The shell had not exploded; it had stuck in the brickwork. The builder buttoned his coat up so as to be less of a target and went to the front of the house. He cast his eyes upwards. He contemplated the wrecked windows.
Foreign enemies had hurt his house in the name of their Emperor. He turned quickly towards the Danube. The bridge of boats was aflame. His bridge! He glanced at poor little Buda, from the heart of which the sister town, defenceless Pest, was shot to death. The town and Christopher Ulwing had been small and poor together; they had risen together, they had become rich, and now they were wounded together.
He began to curse as he used to do when he was a journeyman carpenter.
Around him, there was no sign of life. Nothing moved in the streets. Closed shops. Bolted doors. The town was a great execution ground. Like men under sentence of death, the houses held their breath and were as much abandoned in their misfortunes as human destinies. Now every house lived only for itself, died only for itself. The glare of the burning roofs was reflected in different windows. Sticky smoke crawled along the walls. The bells of a church near the river tolled.
Rage and pain brought tears to Christopher Ulwing’s eyes while he glanced over the grimy, falling houses. How many were his work! He loved them all. He pitied them, pitied himself....
But this lasted only for a second. He clenched his fist as if to restrain his over-flowing energy. He would be in need of it! The muscles of his arm became convulsed and he felt these convulsions reflected in his brain. If necessary, he would start afresh from the very beginning. There was still time. There was still a long life before him.
CHAPTER VII
Days passed by. The bombardment ceased. Frightened shapes emerged from the cellars. Shrinking against the walls, they stared at the conflagration and when they had to cross a street they rushed to the nearest shelter.
The town waited with bated breath. In Ulwing’s house, anxiety became oppressive.