One of them fired a shot at the house, and
next I remember a flood of light on the drive, and, in the circle of
light, my father standing with hand raised. What my father intended can
never be known, for, as he paused and faced the mob, a solitary shot
rang out, and he fell in a huddled heap.
As he fell, a boyish voice from the door shouted "Murderers!" It was
Alex. With his little pistol I had given him for a birthday present in
his hand, he ran forward and, standing over my father's body, head
thrown back, he pointed his pistol at the mob and fired twice. A man
dropped, there was a flash of steel, the crowd surged forward,
and--and, oh! my Karl, they had murdered my beloved brother, my darling
Alex.
The next moment they were in the house. I escaped from my window on to
the roof of the dairy, and from there down a water-pipe, across the
yard to an old hay-loft. For a long time they ran in and out of the
house, like ants, looting and pillaging; then there was a great shout,
and for some time not a soul came out of the house. I guessed they had
got into the cellars. At about midnight I saw that the house was on
fire. In a few minutes it was an inferno and the drunken soldiers came
pouring out, firing their rifles in all directions.
I had found a piece of rope in the loft. One end I placed on a hook and
the other round my neck. I was close to the upper doors of the loft,
with a drop to the courtyard, and thus I stayed, for I feared that some
soldier, more sober than the rest, might explore the outhouses and find
me.
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