Somebody in the hotel lobby shouted:
"An aëroplane is directly over us. They are dropping bombs!"
"Go to the cellar!" cried another.
An officer of gendarmerie came in, followed by a trooper.
"Stay where you are!" he said. "It's safer."
Another explosion sounded, but farther away this time.
"Their Taube is steering toward the fort," continued the same quiet-voiced officer who had spoken. "Don't go out into the streets!"
The uproar in the square had become terrific; high-angle guns poured streams of fire into the sky; dragoons sitting their restless horses fired upward from their saddles; an engine escorted by brass-helmeted pompiers arrived and a stream of water was turned on the debris of the shop across the street, where already pale flames flickered and played over the dusty ruins.
"Somebody has been killed," whispered Philippa in Warner's ear.
He nodded, watching the Red Cross bearers as they hastened up with their stretchers, where the firemen were uncovering something from beneath the heap of smoking debris.