till after midnight. At last it grew too cold in the room, he leaped
up and went stamping up and down to drive away the chill. He stopped
at the window. The sky in one corner was so bright, that the
snow-covered roofs faded into it. In another corner several long-drawn
clouds drifted by, and the atmosphere beneath them had a curious
reddish tinge, a sheen that wavered unsteadily, a red smoking fog. He
tore open the window, fire had broken out in the direction of the
councilor's. Down the stairs, down the street as fast as he could;
down a cross-street, through a side-street, and then straight ahead.
As yet he could not see anything, but as he turned round the corner he
saw the red glow of fire. About a score of people clattered singly
down the street. As they ran past each other, they asked where the
fire was. The answer was "The sugar-refinery." Mogens kept on running
as quickly as before, but much easier at heart. Still a few streets,
there were more and more people, and they were talking now of the
soap-factory. It lay directly opposite the councilor's. Mogens ran on
as if possessed. There was only a single slanting cross-street left.
It was quite filled with people: well-dressed men, ragged old women
who stood talking in a slow, whining tone, yelling apprentices,
over-dressed girls who whispered to each other, corner-loafers who
stood as if rooted to the spot and cracked jokes, surprised drunkards
and drunkards who quarreled, helpless policemen, and carriages that
would go neither forwards nor backwards. Mogens forced his way through
the multitude. Now he was at the corner; the sparks were slowly
falling down upon him. Up the street; there were showers of sparks,
the window-panes on both sides were aglow, the factory was burning,
the councilor's house was burning and the house next door also. There
was nothing but smoke, fire and confusion, cries, curses, tiles that
rattled down, blows of axes, wood that splintered, window-panes that
jingled, jets of water that hissed, spluttered, and splashed, and amid