The flames run on; turning, twirling and twisting, they play round the glowing beams and iron girders, revelling in their might, licking their chops, one might almost say, as the dull, uncanny thuds of falling masonry bring terror to the hearts of the onlookers.
Then a strange thing occurs. Of a sudden the roof falls in with a crash, dome and eaves, and against the sky stands the flaming skeleton of the ruin. Simultaneously a great red cross glows for a space of time on the southern side. And, although it is only a burning window frame, it seems to us to symbolise the invincibility of that great universal emblem of mercy—the Red Cross.
January 25th. With the dawn we visit the ruins. An uncanny stillness reigns as the waning moon gleams through the charred framework. Distorted bedsteads hang by a thread from skeleton balconies, charred heaps of clothing and paper litter the ground. Isolated beams and fragments gleam, ghostlike, in the desolate upper stories, shedding every few moments a thin shower of sparks. A slight wind fans the one remaining corner into a bright blaze. The thin stream of water is still being played, by way of precaution, upon the adjoining houses.
A French sentry, leaning wearily on his rifle, guards the approach on one side, whilst on the other a British Military Policeman has installed himself upon an empty cask to make the best of his long wait.
Through the cavernous window frames, from gaping cavity to gaping cavity, heedless of the floors that are no more, the wind passes like a restless, moaning spirit. All the wonder, all the excitement, all the glory of its glorious end has passed. There remains only the smouldering debris, the blackened, unbeauteous bricks, the after-smell of burnt-out burning.
Later in the day many sightseers began to appear, some even walking out from the town before their day's work began to verify the reports. For, needless to say, many were the rumours about the fire which had reached them, and they were with difficulty persuaded that—a few cuts and scratches from broken glass excepted—there had not been a single casualty.
In an existence so choc-à-bloc with meetings and partings as ours, it is only a few of the better-known faces that remain in our memory. Yet there came into our hut this morning a man whom we shall not easily forget! He came with a kindly-faced N.C.O., who explained that they were "joy-riding." It was, one surmised from his shyness, the patient's first outing, for he seemed as yet unaccustomed to his disfigurement, which was, to say the least of it, appalling, and which, by means of his large muffler and averted head, he made vain efforts to conceal.
Something in the appeal in the eyes of that pallid, crooked face that may once have been handsome, something of the pathos of that limping, bent young figure, as he stood by the counter declining the sergeant's persuasion to take something, with a pathetic gurgle, only just comprehensible, of, "I can't eat! You know I can't eat," touched us all particularly.