"St.
Michael they call it. They said there was great treasure there
hidden in the cellars, but I only found a company of old kings in
their coffins. We stirred them up. They were quiet enough when we
found them, under their counterpanes of red velvet. We stirred them
up with the bayonet, and the dust got into our throats and choked
us. Name of God, I am thirsty. You have nothing in your bottle,
comrade?"
"No."
Barlasch trudged on, all his possessions swinging and clanking
together. The confidential man turned towards him and lifted his
water-bottle, weighed it, and found it wanting.
"Name of a name, of a name, of a name," he muttered, walking on.
"Yes, there was nothing there. Even the silver plates on the
coffins with the names of those gentlemen were no thicker than a
sword. But I found a crown in the church itself. I borrowed it
from St. Michael. He had a sword in his hand, but he did not
strike. No. And there was only tinsel on the hilt. No jewels."
He walked on in silence for a few minutes, coughing out the smoke
and dust from his lungs. It was almost dark, but the whole city was
blazing now, and the sky glowed with a red light that mingled with
the remnants of a lurid sunset. A strong wind blew the smoke and
the flying sparks across the roofs.
"Then I went into the sacristy," continued the man, stumbling over
the dead body of a young girl and turning to curse her. Barlasch
looked at him sideways and cursed him for doing it, with a sudden
fierce eloquence.
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