“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. _The Tailor’s Son Follows Him into the Burning City_ Out at the park gate and down the hill ran Babadag, and straight into the blazing ruin which was once his city. Nothing could stop him. Flames roared on both sides of him; sparks showered around him; walls toppled behind him; smoke swallowed him; but he kept on. We paused in terror; only his little boy continued to follow him, calling to him to come back. A wall of flame shot out behind the running boy, and a house fell crashing behind him into the street; and father and boy were no longer to be seen. I turned away, and leaving the eight tailors wailing, I made my way with my daughter and my friend back to the palace; and there, on the palace steps, we sat all night long, watching the great fire burn itself out. The sun rose on a city of smoking ruins; and with its first rays there came plodding in through the park gate a blind man, who called aloud as he reached the steps. It was the Blind Bowler. “I am here,” said I, “Figli’s friend; and my daughter too, and the governor whom once you tried to help. What news?” “Ten strikes still lacking!” said the Blind Bowler. “But it makes no difference now. Figli has saved me, and all the rest of us too. Come with me.” He led us out into the street and down into the city, where the homeless people were standing as if bewildered. We came into the street where once had been the shop of Babadag the Tailor. It was there no longer; but by some chance there yet remained the wall which held the doorway, and above it the yardstick and the shears; and across the sill lay Figli, on his face. _The Boy Is Found on the Sill of His Ruined Home, Alive_