They are very cosy and cheerful, and as yet the noise without has not penetrated the room. We pass out again. The fire is getting under way now; clouds of black smoke issue from the windows of the first floor, and flames lick the upper balcony.
Still they cry for more water.
They have moved the patients from the beach to the side streets now. They lie on the roadway, already soaking in the water which, by reason of the countless leakages in the hose, fails to arrive anywhere near the scene of action.
In their eyes is a mute appeal, as a gust of wind hurls a shower of sparks over their helpless forms. Then a cloud of smoke hides them from our sight.
"Is anyone left in the building?" is the question on everyone's lips. A reassuring murmur goes round that no patients are left, and the firemen, looking strangely grotesque in their respirators, are now making efforts to save a few of the valuable instruments and records. Some of them are cut about the face by falling glass. From the open doors smoke begins to issue, and cries of "Gangway, there! Gangway!" The hot flames fan one's cheeks. They come in spurts now. Great fascinating spurts! One surmises which window next, and feels a ridiculous sensation of pride at being present, coupled with a longing to do something.
The opportunity comes. Load after load one's hands are filled with apparently valuable documents. "Officers' Mess," shout the men who place them there, as one moves off to find an entrance to the building.
On returning the noise is greater than ever. The rescued are being deposited anywhere—everywhere—wildly—pêle-mêle. Red blankets fall from windows, papers flutter a moment, adding to the general danger, and get trodden under foot in the mud.
"The left wing is doomed. Can they save the right?"
"Why don't they blow it up to safeguard the adjoining houses?"