We
presently entered a long, narrow street. At the end of it the
river was visible gleaming and sparkling in the sunlight. The
street was quiet; quiet and empty. There was no living soul to
be seen from end to end of it, only a prowling dog. The noise of
the tumult raging in other parts was softened here by distance
and the intervening houses. We seemed to be able to breathe more
freely.
"This should be our street," said Croisette.
I nodded. At the same moment I espied, half-way down it, the
sign we needed and pointed to it, But ah! were we in time? Or
too late? That was the question. By a single impulse we broke
into a run, and shot down the roadway at speed. A few yards
short of the Head of Erasmus we came, one by one, Croisette
first, to a full stop. A full stop!
The house opposite the bookseller's was sacked! gutted from top
to bottom. It was a tall house, immediately fronting the street,
and every window in it was broken. The door hung forlornly on
one hinge, glaring cracks in its surface showing where the axe
had splintered it.
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