“Ah!” said Babadag with a groan. “My city, my city!”
“What have I done? What have I done?” cried Figli, wringing his hands in anguish.
“You, my son? What have you to do with this?” said his father, never taking his eyes from the burning city.
“It’s my work!” cried the boy. “But I never dreamed of this! I set fire to the shop, our shop, before I left,—to burn up all the black secrets in my father’s house, and to kill Goolk the Spider, to kill him, kill him, so that he would never get the Blind Bowler, nor any one else! So that all the old riches and wickedness might be burned up forever! And now, and now, I haven’t destroyed the Eyebrow, and I’ve burned up the city! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”
“My son, my son,” said Babadag, quietly, never taking his eyes from the burning city.
I recalled now the spark of fire I had seen through the window as we had left the tailor’s shop that night.
The flames of the furnace below us shot higher and higher, and spread wider and wider in every direction.
“The Book of the Shavian Magic,” said Babadag, as if to himself. “That must be saved.”
He ran down the steps and started across the park.
“Father! father! where are you going?” cried Figli, but his father paid no attention. The boy sped after him, and we others followed.