Mogens ran up the
ladder, and in through the opening. At first he had to close his eyes
on account of the pungent wood-smoke, and the heavy suffocating fumes
which rose from the charred wood that the water had reached took his
breath away. He was in the dining-room. The living-room was a huge
glowing abyss; the flames from the lower part of the house, now and
then, almost reached up to the ceiling; the few boards that had
remained hanging when the floor fell burned in brilliant
yellowish-white flames; shadows and the gleam of flames flooded over
the walls; the wall-paper here and there curled up, caught fire, and
flew in flaming tatters down into the abyss; eager yellow flames
licked their way up on the loosened moldings and picture-frames.
Mogens crept over the ruins and fragments of the fallen wall towards
the edge of the abyss, from which cold and hot blasts of air
alternately struck his face; on the other side so much of the wall had
fallen, that he could look into Camilla's room, while the part that
hid the councilor's office still stood. It grew hotter and hotter; the
skin of his face became taut, and he noticed, that his hair was
crinkling. Something heavy glided past his shoulder and remained lying
on his back and pressed him down to the floor; it was the girder which
slowly had slipped out of place. He could not move, breathing became
more and more difficult, his temples throbbed violently; to his left a
jet of water splashed against the wall of the dining-room, and the
wish rose in him, that the cold, cold drops, which scattered in all
directions might fall on him.
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