And even as he spoke one or two of the wounded dragged themselves,
half burnt, down the wide steps. No one dared to approach them, for
the walls of the building were already bulging outwards. One man
was half covered with a sheet which was black, and his bare limbs
were black with smoke. All the hair was burnt from his head and
face. He stood for a moment in the doorway--a sight never to be
forgotten--and then fell headlong down the steps, where he lay
motionless. Some one in the crowd laughed--a high cackle which was
heard above the roar of the fire and the deafening chorus of burning
timbers.
Barlasch passed on, following some officers who were leading their
horses towards the Kremlin. The streets were full of soldiers
carrying burdens, and staggering beneath the weight of their spoil.
Many were wearing priceless fur cloaks, and others walked in women's
wraps of sable and ermine. Some wore jewellery, such as necklaces,
on their rough uniforms, and bracelets round their sunburnt wrists.
No one laughed at them, but only glanced enviously at the pillage.
All were in deadly earnest, and none graver than those who had found
drink and now regretted that they had given way to the temptation;
for their sober comrades had outwitted them in finding treasure.
One man gravely wore a gilt coronet crammed over the crown of his
shako. He joined Barlasch, staggering along beside him.
"I come from the Cathedral," he explained, confidentially.
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