As he unconsciously went on groping about, he came upon some boxes of matches which lay by the can.
This opened his eyes, he gave a terrible cry, “He is going to set Helenenthal on fire!”
Everything swam before his eyes, and he would have fallen backward from the ladder had he not clung to the framework of the window.
All was clear. His father’s confused talk, his laughs, his threats.
But there was yet time. The old man could only creep along on his crutch. He might throw himself on his horse, and gallop after him.
“Saddle a horse!” he called out through the dark, and sprang down from the ladder. Then suddenly it shot through his brain—“Why did father ask so minutely about the time years ago? Would his revenge be executed at the same moment? Good heavens’ then all is lost. I told him one o’clock was the hour, and it is one now.”
Mad fear seized him—again he climbed the ladder.
In the next moment the flames would rise over there.
Is it not burning there already? No, it is only the moon that shines on the windows of the White House. Heavenly Father, is there no salvation, no mercy? If a prayer, if a curse could have the power to lame the out stretched hand! Who will warn him, who will give him a sign to turn back?
But there are the flames No. Perhaps in another second the fiery glow will rise to the sky.