They heard the noise of heavy furniture being moved in the flat above.
“I was wondering how long they would dare to stay,” said Marie, contemptuously. “This is a city of cowards.”
Alys slipped into bed, and Marie, who slept at the other side of the room, came over and kissed her.
“Are you quite sure?” asked Alys.
“What do you mean, little dear?”
“Oh, nothing. But we really are safe, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are. Even if they don’t put the fire out, it can’t reach us for days and days. Good-night, princess. Sleep well!”
She put her arm round her sister’s neck and, for a little minute, lingered in love, blessing her. Then she rose, walked over to her own bed and, having drawn the thick curtains over the windows, blew out the solitary candle.
But Alys could not sleep. She only half-slept. Her tired little body seemed to sleep, but her mind buried itself in fancies—the sort of fancies that come to us in fever. This is what her imagination said to her:
“If the fire should come up the stair, walking, running. Then Marie and I would have to jump from the window.... You can buy fire. They put fire on the end of little match-stalks and sell him. They imprison him in tiny bits of phosphorus.... Oh, yes: just rub a match between your moist palms in the dark and your hands seem to be on fire. But it isn’t fire, really—just a strange kind of light.... Imprison! But no one likes being caged up. Fire doesn’t. Sometimes he leaps out of his cage—like to-night—and just shows you.... If we were in the street, we should be trampled on. Marie has not thought of these things.... Tiny bits of phosphorus. Just matches....”