In the street below men and women were rushing to and fro distractedly, carrying armfuls of their household goods—blankets, mattresses, pots and pans, bird-cages, babies, carpets, cradles, chairs, etc. They dumped them in the street, the womenfolk sitting on them whilst their men went far afield seeking means of transport. Across the street, on the second storey, a wine-merchant, at his wits’ end, was hurling casks of wine onto the pavement below; each burst open with a crash, the wine rushing out and making a thick stream in the gutter. No one stopped to laugh at him.
“What cowards these natives are!” exclaimed Marie, with disgust; “they always begin to squeal before they’re hurt.”
“I should like to go out and wander about and see what everybody is doing,” said Alys.
“Better not,” counselled Marie. “There’ll be a lot of looting, I expect, and half the natives will be drunk. Look how frightfully excited they all are! But we must not get too excited or we shall never sleep. We have to work to-morrow, you know.”
Still, they stood for a long time at the window, fascinated yet contemptuous. The scene below grew wilder minute by minute. The vast white furnace half a mile away lit up the street. Confusion was everywhere. Occasionally, a woman’s shriek came up to them like a stupid bit of theatricality. Now and again a band of young men brandishing sticks marched down the street, singing and laughing.
At last, Marie drew her sister within the room.
“Thank God we are not as other people,” she said, smiling. “Let us go to bed.”
They shared the same room. Alys was afraid, but she did not dare confess her fear to her sister. Marie had always taught her that they were better than other people. No doubt they were better. Nevertheless, she trembled a little as she knelt down to pray. Her fear increased when she discovered that she was mumbling words without any thought or hope behind them.
Suddenly, she started and rose to her feet.
“What is that?” she asked, panting.