He
tore himself out of his arms, seized a lathe that lay on the floor,
struck the man over the head with it so that he staggered backward; he
himself issued from the opening and ran erect down the ladder, holding
the lathe above his head. Through the tumult, the smoke, the crowd of
people, through empty streets, across desolate squares, out into the
fields. Deep snow everywhere, at a little distance a black spot, it
was a gravel-heap, that jutted out above the snow. He struck at it
with the lathe, struck again and again, continued to strike at it; he
wished to strike it dead, so that it might disappear; he wanted to run
far away, and ran round about the heap and struck at it as if
possessed. It would not, would not disappear; he hurled the lathe far
away and flung himself upon the black heap to give it the finishing
stroke. He got his hands full of small stones, it was gravel, it was a
black heap of gravel. Why was he out here in the field burrowing in a
black gravel-heap?--He smelled the smoke, the flames flashed round
him, he saw Camilla sink down into them, he cried out aloud and rushed
wildly across the field. He could not rid himself of the sight of the
flames, he held his eyes shut: Flames, flames! He threw himself on the
ground and pressed his face down into the snow: Flames! He leaped up,
ran backward, ran forward, turned aside: Flames everywhere! He rushed
further across the snow, past houses, past trees, past a terror-struck
face, that stared out through a window-pane, round stacks of grain and
through farm-yards, where dogs howled and tore at their chains.
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