He hurried to the scene of disaster. The firemen were plying their utmost efforts to bring the flames under. But the fire had already made such headway that they struggled against hope.
Gottfried lent his aid with the energy of despair. Finally, unable to conceal from himself that the building must be consumed, he rushed into the crackling flames, in the hope of at least rescuing the manuscript of which he had written that day the concluding paragraphs.
It was a mad effort, such as nothing but despair could prompt. The smoke stifled him; the flames scorched and burned him. He was dragged out by main force, having succeeded in passing but a few feet beyond the threshold. Luckily he was in a state of insensibility, so that the last scenes in the conflagration passed without his knowledge.
The weeks that succeeded were a blank to Gottfried, for he was plunged in the delirium of a brain fever. When, at length, he awoke to consciousness, it was in a small and poorly-furnished chamber. At the bedside was seated a woman, coarsely but neatly attired.
“Where am I?” he inquired, bewildered. “What has happened to me?”
“You are at length better, thank Heaven,” said the woman, earnestly, “since the delirium has left you.”
“Delirium!” said Gottfried, raising himself on his elbow in surprise. “Oh, yes! I now recall the fearful calamity which has befallen me. My books,—are they all gone? Is there not one left?”
“Yes, one was saved.”
“What is it? Bring it to me.”
From a shelf near by, the attendant took down a small volume which had been scorched, but not otherwise injured, by the flames.