And all this while they both forgot that, on the other side of the wall which was protecting them, a city was throbbing in grisly conflict, and that among the ruins thousands of beings, themselves but ruins, hurled hither and thither, were losing their reason, and perishing, tortured by deadly fear. The voice of the Archangel Michael, coming from the cathedral, recalled them to consciousness of the hour, and they parted hurriedly, as if caught neglecting their duty. Maria listened to the man’s retreating step.... Then she turned and looked about her. What a strange sound the Michael bell had.... The bell was calling so furiously—so agitatedly, as though to tumble over at every peal.... Maria’s heart became an echo of the bell. It fluttered in its piteous fear, which had no source other than the general vibration of terror above the town. Even the warming flames of the fire frightened her, as if they had some knowledge of secrets of Horror. She sat up and put her feet to the ground. She felt the hem of her dress. It was still rather wet but she would go now. She took a few steps through the dimly-lighted room. How brown the air was outside the windows.... She hesitatingly opened the nearest door and listened.... She was standing in the room in which she had stood on the day when she saw Freder for the first time, when she had led the train of little, grey child-spectres to those who were care-free and joyous—when she had called to Freder’s heart with her gentle: “Look, these are your brothers!” But of all the dearly beloved sons of boundlessly wealthy fathers, to whom this house belonged, not one was to be seen. They must have left the tottering town long ago. Sparsely distributed candles were burning, giving the room an inward cosiness and a warm air of comfort. The room was filled with the tender twittering of sleepy child-voices, chattering like swallows before they fly to their nests. Answering them in tones which were but little darker, came the voices of the beautiful, brocaded, painted women, who had once been the playthings of the sons. Equally frightened at the thought of flight as of remaining where they were, they eventually stayed in the “House of the Sons,” being still undecided; and Maria had brought the children to them, because they could have found no better refuge; for, by the beautiful and dreadful chance of all that had taken place, the troup of loving little harlots became a troup of loving little mothers, burning with a new fire in the execution of their new duties. Not far from Maria the little drink-mixer was kneeling, washing the skinny slender-limbed body of Grot’s daughter, who was standing in front of her. But the child had taken the sponge from her hand, and, without saying a word, proceeding with intense gravity, was thoughtfully and untiringly washing the beautiful, painted face of the drink-mixer.