She stretched out her hands and tried to raise the pressed-in door. It did not budge. Once more. No result. Head, arms, shoulders pushing, hips and knees pressing, as if to burst their sinews. No result. The door did not yield by a hair’s breadth. If a child had tried to push the cathedral from its place it could not have acted more foolishly nor ineffectually. For, upon the door, which alone led the way out of the depths, there towered, as high as houses, the corpses of the dead engines, which, when madness first broke out over Metropolis, had been the terrible playthings of the mob. Train upon train, with carriages thundering along, all lights burning and on full power, had rushed along the rails, lashed by the bawling of the mob, had fallen upon each other, had become mixed and piled up together, had burnt down and were now lying, half-melted, still smouldering, a mass of ruins. And one, single lamp, remaining undamaged, threw the shaft of its sharp, corrosive light over the chaos, from the steel breast of the hindmost engine. But Maria knew nothing of all this. She did not need to know. Sufficient for her that the door, which was the only means of deliverance for her and the children she wanted to save, remained inexorable, immovable, and finally, with bleeding hands and shoulders, with battered head, and feet crippled with numbness, she was obliged to resign herself to the incomprehensible, to the murderous. She raised her face to the ray of light which fell upon her. The words of a little, childish prayer, now no longer intelligible, ran through her head. She dropped her head and sat down on the stairs. The children stood in silence, crowded closely together, under the curse of something which, though they could not understand it, was very close above them. “Little brothers, little sisters,” said Maria’s voice, very affectionately, “can you all understand what I am saying?” “Yes,” floated up from the children. “The door is closed.... We must wait a little.... Someone is sure to come and open it for us. Will you be patient and not be frightened?” “Yes,” came an answer, as a sigh. “Sit down as well as you can....” The children obeyed. “I am going to tell you a story,” said Maria. CHAPTER XVIII “Little sister....” “Yes?” “I am so hungry, sister...!” “Hungry...!” echoed out of the depths. “Don’t you want to hear the end of my story?” “Yes.... But sister, when you’ve finished, can’t we go out and have dinner?” “Of course ... as soon as my story’s finished.... Just think: Foxy Fox went for a walk—went for a walk through the beautiful flowery meadows; he had his Sunday coat on, and he held his bushy red tail bolt upright, and he was smoking his little pipe and singing all the while.... Do you know what Foxy Fox sang?— I am the cheerful Fox—Hurray! I am the cheerful Fox—Hurray!