With both hands he seized the can, and swinging it round him, poured its contents on the piled-up sheaves.
He grasped the matches. There is a soft hissing, the storm howls through the opening, and the flame shoots up high into the air, a whistling, hissing roaring is heard. The fire has already reached the roof.
He rushes back into the yard, which still lies silent before him.
“Fire! fire! fire!” he cries, to wake the sleepers.
In the stables, where the farm servants sleep, there is a great stir, shrieks come from the servants’ rooms.
The roof is already wrapped in a fiery mantle. The tiles begin to crack, and fall rattling to the ground. Wherever there is an outlet a fountain of flame immediately spirts up towards the sky.
Hitherto he had been standing in the yard all alone, watching his terrible work with folded hands, but now the doors were torn open, and the farm servants and maids rushed screaming into the yard.
Then he sighed, relieved, as at a duty accomplished, and walked slowly into the garden to avoid meeting anybody. “I have worked long enough,” he murmured, slamming the gate behind him. “To-day I will rest!”
With lagging steps he went along the gravel path like one tired out, murmuring incessantly “Rest! rest!”
His glance wandered wearily around, the garden lay before him, bathed in a sea of light caused by the moonbeams and the flames, and the shadows of the storm driven leaves danced before his eyes like something supernatural. Here and there a spark fell upon the path before him, looking like a glowworm. He searched for the darkest arbor, and hid in its farthest corner. There he sat down on the turfy seat and buried his face in his hands.