The fire had reached the roof of the toolshed. The air quivered with heat. Hoarse crackling, spasmodic hissing, mingled with the cries of many human voices.
The half-closed eyes of the builder rarely moved. He heard, he saw nothing that happened around him. He was mysteriously distant from all that.
Under the window the wasted leaves shrivelled up with a dry crackling sound. The pump in the courtyard creaked uniformly. A fire engine started to spray the hot walls.
In that instant a heavy, clipped voice floated through the air, like a round disc of metal....
Something passed over the face of Christopher Ulwing.
“The church bells! It is morning and the church bells ring.”
All looked at him awestricken. The hands of the builder gripped the armchair. John Hubert and Florian supported him on either side.
“Let me go!” That was the shadow of his old voice. He did not know that nobody obeyed him any more.
“To build ... to build....” His chin went all to one side and his body straightened itself with a frightful effort. The dying Christopher Ulwing towered by a whole head above the living....
Then, as if something inside him had given him a twist, he turned half way round. John Hubert and the servant bent under his weight. In their arms the builder was dead. He had died standing and the gleam of the burning oak remained in his broken eyes.