Oh, God in Heaven, let a miracle happen! Let a fire break out on the heath, as it happened before--as happened before. There _must_ be a fire! And there must be a fire here! If lightning would but strike the roof of his own home, so that the flames might cry out to his father, “Stop, stop!” Ah, why is it such a clear, starlight night? Why is there no threatening cloud upon the horizon? Perhaps he is even now stretching up to the thatched roof. Perhaps he is now striking the match. In another moment all warning will be too late. There must be a fire! There must be a fire here! And there is no torch that I could swing to warn him! “There must be a fire! There must be a fire here!” And as he looked around with eyes starting from his head, there suddenly flashed upon him an idea as bright as the fire he was longing for. He shouted with joy. “Yes, that’s the thing. The terror will benumb him. It must be saved. Saved at any price.” With both hands he seized the can, and swinging it round him, poured its contents on the piled-up sheaves. He grasped the matches. There is a soft hissing, the storm howls through the opening, and the flame shoots up high into the air, a whistling, hissing roaring is heard. The fire has already reached the roof. He rushes back into the yard, which still lies silent before him. “Fire! fire! fire!” he cries, to wake the sleepers. In the stables, where the farm servants sleep, there is a great stir, shrieks come from the servants’ rooms. The roof is already wrapped in a fiery mantle. The tiles begin to crack, and fall rattling to the ground. Wherever there is an outlet a fountain of flame immediately spirts up towards the sky. Hitherto he had been standing in the yard all alone, watching his terrible work with folded hands, but now the doors were torn open, and the farm servants and maids rushed screaming into the yard. Then he sighed, relieved, as at a duty accomplished, and walked slowly into the garden to avoid meeting anybody. “I have worked long enough,” he murmured, slamming the gate behind him. “To-day I will rest!” With lagging steps he went along the gravel path like one tired out, murmuring incessantly “Rest! rest!” His glance wandered wearily around, the garden lay before him, bathed in a sea of light caused by the moonbeams and the flames, and the shadows of the storm driven leaves danced before his eyes like something supernatural. Here and there a spark fell upon the path before him, looking like a glowworm. He searched for the darkest arbor, and hid in its farthest corner. There he sat down on the turfy seat and buried his face in his hands. He wanted neither to hear nor to see anything more. But a dull feeling of curiosity made him look up after a while, and as he raised his eyes he saw the flames arch over the house like a crimson, white-edged canopy, for the storm was blowing that way. Then he knew all was lost. He folded his hands. He felt as if he ought to pray.