Dead London

After I had parted from the artilleryman, I went down the hill, and by the High Street across the bridge to Fulham. The red weed was tumultuous at that time, and nearly choked the bridge roadway; but its fronds were already whitened in patches by the spreading disease that presently removed it so swiftly.

After I left the artilleryman, I went down the hill, along High Street, and across the bridge to Fulham. The red weed was growing wildly then and nearly blocked the road across the bridge. But patches of its fronds were already turning white from the spreading disease that soon destroyed it so quickly.

At the corner of the lane that runs to Putney Bridge station I found a man lying. He was as black as a sweep with the black dust, alive, but helplessly and speechlessly drunk. I could get nothing from him but curses and furious lunges at my head. I think I should have stayed by him but for the brutal expression of his face.

At the corner of the lane leading to Putney Bridge station, I found a man lying on the ground. He was covered in black dust, as black as a chimney sweep. He was alive, but so drunk that he could neither move properly nor speak. All he did was curse and lunge furiously at my head. I think I would have stayed with him if not for the brutal expression on his face.

There was black dust along the roadway from the bridge onwards, and it grew thicker in Fulham. The streets were horribly quiet. I got food—sour, hard, and mouldy, but quite eatable—in a baker’s shop here. Some way towards Walham Green the streets became clear of powder, and I passed a white terrace of houses on fire; the noise of the burning was an absolute relief. Going on towards Brompton, the streets were quiet again.

Black dust covered the road from the bridge onward, and it grew thicker in Fulham. The streets were horribly quiet. I found food in a baker’s shop there. It was sour, hard, and moldy, but quite edible. Farther on, toward Walham Green, the streets were clear of dust. I passed a row of white houses on fire. The sound of the fire was an absolute relief. As I continued toward Brompton, the streets were quiet again.

Here I came once more upon the black powder in the streets and upon dead bodies. I saw altogether about a dozen in the length of the Fulham Road. They had been dead many days, so that I hurried quickly past them. The black powder covered them over, and softened their outlines. One or two had been disturbed by dogs.

Here I again found black powder and dead bodies in the streets. I saw about a dozen bodies along Fulham Road. They had been dead for many days, so I hurried past them. The black powder covered them and softened their outlines. Dogs had disturbed one or two of the bodies.

Where there was no black powder, it was curiously like a Sunday in the City, with the closed shops, the houses locked up and the blinds drawn, the desertion, and the stillness. In some places plunderers had been at work, but rarely at other than the provision and wine shops. A jeweller’s window had been broken open in one place, but apparently the thief had been disturbed, and a number of gold chains and a watch lay scattered on the pavement. I did not trouble to touch them. Farther on was a tattered woman in a heap on a doorstep; the hand that hung over her knee was gashed and bled down her rusty brown dress, and a smashed magnum of champagne formed a pool across the pavement. She seemed asleep, but she was dead.

Where there was no black powder, the scene was strangely like a Sunday in the City. The shops were closed, the houses were locked, and the blinds were drawn. Everything was deserted and still. Looters had been at work in some places, but they had rarely targeted anything other than food and wine shops. In one place, a jeweller’s window had been smashed, but the thief had apparently been disturbed. Several gold chains and a watch lay scattered on the pavement. I did not bother to touch them. Farther on, a woman in torn clothes lay in a heap on a doorstep. The hand hanging over her knee was cut, and blood had run down her rusty brown dress. A smashed magnum of champagne had left a pool across the pavement. She seemed to be asleep, but she was dead.

The farther I penetrated into London, the profounder grew the stillness. But it was not so much the stillness of death—it was the stillness of suspense, of expectation. At any time the destruction that had already singed the northwestern borders of the metropolis, and had annihilated Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these houses and leave them smoking ruins. It was a city condemned and derelict. . . .

The farther I went into London, the deeper the silence became. But it was less the silence of death than the silence of suspense and expectation. The destruction had already scorched the northwestern edges of London and destroyed Ealing and Kilburn. At any moment, it might strike these houses and leave them smoking ruins. The city was condemned and abandoned. . . .

In South Kensington the streets were clear of dead and of black powder. It was near South Kensington that I first heard the howling. It crept almost imperceptibly upon my senses. It was a sobbing alternation of two notes, “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” keeping on perpetually. When I passed streets that ran northward it grew in volume, and houses and buildings seemed to deaden and cut it off again. It came in a full tide down Exhibition Road. I stopped, staring towards Kensington Gardens, wondering at this strange, remote wailing. It was as if that mighty desert of houses had found a voice for its fear and solitude.

In South Kensington, the streets were clear of the dead and the black powder. It was near South Kensington that I first heard the howling. It crept into my awareness so gradually that I hardly noticed it. It was a sobbing sound, two notes alternating endlessly: “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla.” When I passed streets running north, the sound grew louder. Then the houses and buildings seemed to muffle and block it again. The sound poured down Exhibition Road. I stopped and stared towards Kensington Gardens, wondering about the strange, distant wailing. It was as if that vast desert of houses had found a voice for its fear and loneliness.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” wailed that superhuman note—great waves of sound sweeping down the broad, sunlit roadway, between the tall buildings on each side. I turned northwards, marvelling, towards the iron gates of Hyde Park. I had half a mind to break into the Natural History Museum and find my way up to the summits of the towers, in order to see across the park. But I decided to keep to the ground, where quick hiding was possible, and so went on up the Exhibition Road. All the large mansions on each side of the road were empty and still, and my footsteps echoed against the sides of the houses. At the top, near the park gate, I came upon a strange sight—a bus overturned, and the skeleton of a horse picked clean. I puzzled over this for a time, and then went on to the bridge over the Serpentine. The voice grew stronger and stronger, though I could see nothing above the housetops on the north side of the park, save a haze of smoke to the northwest.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” wailed the superhuman voice. Great waves of sound swept down the broad, sunlit road between the tall buildings on either side. Wondering at the sound, I turned north toward the iron gates of Hyde Park. I considered breaking into the Natural History Museum and climbing to the tops of its towers to see across the park. But I decided to stay on the ground, where I could quickly hide, and continued up Exhibition Road. All the large mansions on both sides of the road were empty and silent. My footsteps echoed off their walls. At the top, near the park gate, I came upon a strange sight: an overturned bus and a horse’s skeleton picked clean. I puzzled over the sight for a while, then continued to the bridge over the Serpentine. The voice grew louder and louder. But I could see nothing above the rooftops on the north side of the park except a haze of smoke to the northwest.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” cried the voice, coming, as it seemed to me, from the district about Regent’s Park. The desolating cry worked upon my mind. The mood that had sustained me passed. The wailing took possession of me. I found I was intensely weary, footsore, and now again hungry and thirsty.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” cried the voice. It seemed to come from the area around Regent’s Park. The despairing cry weighed on my mind. The mood that had kept me going passed. The wailing took hold of me. I realized I was exhausted, my feet were sore, and I was hungry and thirsty again.

It was already past noon. Why was I wandering alone in this city of the dead? Why was I alone when all London was lying in state, and in its black shroud? I felt intolerably lonely. My mind ran on old friends that I had forgotten for years. I thought of the poisons in the chemists’ shops, of the liquors the wine merchants stored; I recalled the two sodden creatures of despair, who so far as I knew, shared the city with myself. . . .

It was already past noon. Why was I wandering alone in this city of the dead? Why was I alone when all London lay like a corpse wrapped in a black shroud? I felt unbearably lonely. My thoughts turned to old friends I had forgotten for years. I thought of the poisons in the pharmacies and the liquor stored by wine merchants. I remembered the two drunken, despairing creatures who, as far as I knew, shared the city with me. . . .

I came into Oxford Street by the Marble Arch, and here again were black powder and several bodies, and an evil, ominous smell from the gratings of the cellars of some of the houses. I grew very thirsty after the heat of my long walk. With infinite trouble I managed to break into a public-house and get food and drink. I was weary after eating, and went into the parlour behind the bar, and slept on a black horsehair sofa I found there.

I entered Oxford Street by Marble Arch. Here again, there was black powder and several bodies. An evil, ominous smell rose from the cellar grates of some houses. After my long walk in the heat, I became very thirsty. With great difficulty, I managed to break into a pub and get food and drink. I was tired after eating, so I went into the room behind the bar. There I found a black horsehair sofa and slept on it.

I awoke to find that dismal howling still in my ears, “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla.” It was now dusk, and after I had routed out some biscuits and a cheese in the bar—there was a meat safe, but it contained nothing but maggots—I wandered on through the silent residential squares to Baker Street—Portman Square is the only one I can name—and so came out at last upon Regent’s Park. And as I emerged from the top of Baker Street, I saw far away over the trees in the clearness of the sunset the hood of the Martian giant from which this howling proceeded. I was not terrified. I came upon him as if it were a matter of course. I watched him for some time, but he did not move. He appeared to be standing and yelling, for no reason that I could discover.

I woke to find that miserable howling still in my ears: “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla.” It was dusk now. I found some biscuits and cheese in the bar. There was a meat safe, but it contained nothing but maggots. Then I wandered on through the silent residential squares to Baker Street. Portman Square is the only one I can name. At last I came out at Regent’s Park. As I emerged from the top of Baker Street, I saw the hood of the Martian giant far away above the trees. I could see it clearly in the sunset, and the howling came from it. I was not terrified. I came upon him as if it were a matter of course. I watched him for some time, but he did not move. He seemed to be standing and yelling for no reason I could discover.

I tried to formulate a plan of action. That perpetual sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” confused my mind. Perhaps I was too tired to be very fearful. Certainly I was more curious to know the reason of this monotonous crying than afraid. I turned back away from the park and struck into Park Road, intending to skirt the park, went along under the shelter of the terraces, and got a view of this stationary, howling Martian from the direction of St. John’s Wood. A couple of hundred yards out of Baker Street I heard a yelping chorus, and saw, first a dog with a piece of putrescent red meat in his jaws coming headlong towards me, and then a pack of starving mongrels in pursuit of him. He made a wide curve to avoid me, as though he feared I might prove a fresh competitor. As the yelping died away down the silent road, the wailing sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” reasserted itself.

I tried to make a plan. The constant sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” confused me. Perhaps I was too tired to feel very afraid. Certainly, I was more curious about the reason for the monotonous crying than afraid. I turned away from the park and headed into Park Road, intending to go around it. I went along under the shelter of the terraces. From the direction of St. John’s Wood, I could see the Martian standing still and howling. A couple of hundred yards from Baker Street, I heard a chorus of yelps. First I saw a dog rushing toward me with a piece of rotting red meat in his jaws. Then I saw a pack of starving mongrels chasing him. He made a wide curve to avoid me, as though he feared I might compete with him for the meat. As the yelping faded down the silent road, the wailing sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” rose again.

I came upon the wrecked handling-machine halfway to St. John’s Wood station. At first I thought a house had fallen across the road. It was only as I clambered among the ruins that I saw, with a start, this mechanical Samson lying, with its tentacles bent and smashed and twisted, among the ruins it had made. The forepart was shattered. It seemed as if it had driven blindly straight at the house, and had been overwhelmed in its overthrow. It seemed to me then that this might have happened by a handling-machine escaping from the guidance of its Martian. I could not clamber among the ruins to see it, and the twilight was now so far advanced that the blood with which its seat was smeared, and the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs had left, were invisible to me.

I came across the wrecked handling-machine halfway to St. John’s Wood station. At first I thought a house had collapsed across the road. Only as I climbed among the ruins did I see the machine, and it startled me. This mechanical Samson lay among the ruins it had made, its tentacles bent, smashed, and twisted. Its front was shattered. It looked as if the machine had driven blindly straight at the house and been buried when the house fell. I thought then that this might have happened if a handling-machine had escaped its Martian’s control. I could not climb through the ruins to see it. By then, the twilight was so deep that I could not see the blood smeared on its seat. Nor could I see the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs had left.

Wondering still more at all that I had seen, I pushed on towards Primrose Hill. Far away, through a gap in the trees, I saw a second Martian, as motionless as the first, standing in the park towards the Zoological Gardens, and silent. A little beyond the ruins about the smashed handling-machine I came upon the red weed again, and found the Regent’s Canal, a spongy mass of dark-red vegetation.

Still more puzzled by all I had seen, I pressed on toward Primrose Hill. Far away, through a gap in the trees, I saw a second Martian standing in the park toward the Zoological Gardens. It was silent and as motionless as the first. A little beyond the ruins around the smashed handling-machine, I came upon the red weed again. I found that the Regent’s Canal was a spongy mass of dark-red vegetation.

As I crossed the bridge, the sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” ceased. It was, as it were, cut off. The silence came like a thunderclap.

As I crossed the bridge, the sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” stopped. It was as if it had been cut off. The silence came like a thunderclap.

The dusky houses about me stood faint and tall and dim; the trees towards the park were growing black. All about me the red weed clambered among the ruins, writhing to get above me in the dimness. Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me. But while that voice sounded the solitude, the desolation, had been endurable; by virtue of it London had still seemed alive, and the sense of life about me had upheld me. Then suddenly a change, the passing of something—I knew not what—and then a stillness that could be felt. Nothing but this gaunt quiet.

The shadowy houses around me stood tall and faint in the dim light. The trees toward the park were turning black. All around me, the red weed climbed through the ruins, twisting in the darkness to rise above me. Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was closing in on me. But while that voice sounded, I could bear the loneliness and desolation. The voice had made London seem still alive, and the sense of life around me had sustained me. Then suddenly something changed, something passed away. I did not know what. Then came a stillness I could feel. There was nothing but that bleak silence.

London about me gazed at me spectrally. The windows in the white houses were like the eye sockets of skulls. About me my imagination found a thousand noiseless enemies moving. Terror seized me, a horror of my temerity. In front of me the road became pitchy black as though it was tarred, and I saw a contorted shape lying across the pathway. I could not bring myself to go on. I turned down St. John’s Wood Road, and ran headlong from this unendurable stillness towards Kilburn. I hid from the night and the silence, until long after midnight, in a cabmen’s shelter in Harrow Road. But before the dawn my courage returned, and while the stars were still in the sky I turned once more towards Regent’s Park. I missed my way among the streets, and presently saw down a long avenue, in the half-light of the early dawn, the curve of Primrose Hill. On the summit, towering up to the fading stars, was a third Martian, erect and motionless like the others.

London seemed to stare at me like a ghost. The windows in the white houses looked like the eye sockets of skulls. My imagination filled the streets around me with a thousand enemies moving in silence. Terror seized me, and I was horrified by my own daring. Ahead of me, the road turned pitch-black, as if it had been covered in tar. I saw a twisted shape lying across the path. I could not bring myself to go on. I turned down St. John’s Wood Road and ran headlong toward Kilburn, fleeing the unbearable stillness. I hid from the night and the silence in a cabmen’s shelter on Harrow Road until long after midnight. But before dawn, my courage returned. While the stars were still in the sky, I turned once more toward Regent’s Park. I lost my way among the streets. Soon, in the dim early light, I saw the curve of Primrose Hill down a long avenue. On the summit stood a third Martian, towering up toward the fading stars. It was upright and motionless, like the others.

An insane resolve possessed me. I would die and end it. And I would save myself even the trouble of killing myself. I marched on recklessly towards this Titan, and then, as I drew nearer and the light grew, I saw that a multitude of black birds was circling and clustering about the hood. At that my heart gave a bound, and I began running along the road.

A mad determination took hold of me. I would die and end it all. I would even save myself the trouble of killing myself. I marched recklessly toward the Titan. As I got closer and the light grew brighter, I saw countless black birds circling and gathering around its hood. My heart leaped at the sight, and I began running along the road.

I hurried through the red weed that choked St. Edmund’s Terrace (I waded breast-high across a torrent of water that was rushing down from the waterworks towards the Albert Road), and emerged upon the grass before the rising of the sun. Great mounds had been heaped about the crest of the hill, making a huge redoubt of it—it was the final and largest place the Martians had made—and from behind these heaps there rose a thin smoke against the sky. Against the sky line an eager dog ran and disappeared. The thought that had flashed into my mind grew real, grew credible. I felt no fear, only a wild, trembling exultation, as I ran up the hill towards the motionless monster. Out of the hood hung lank shreds of brown, at which the hungry birds pecked and tore.

I hurried through the red weed choking St. Edmund’s Terrace. I waded through a torrent of water that reached my chest. It was rushing from the waterworks towards the Albert Road. I reached the grass before sunrise. Great mounds had been piled around the top of the hill, turning it into a huge fortification. It was the last and largest place the Martians had made. Thin smoke rose into the sky from behind the mounds. A dog ran eagerly along the skyline and disappeared. The thought that had flashed through my mind began to seem real, believable. I felt no fear, only a wild, trembling joy, as I ran up the hill towards the motionless monster. Long, limp brown shreds hung from its hood. Hungry birds pecked and tore at them.

In another moment I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and stood upon its crest, and the interior of the redoubt was below me. A mighty space it was, with gigantic machines here and there within it, huge mounds of material and strange shelter places. And scattered about it, some in their overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid handling-machines, and a dozen of them stark and silent and laid in a row, were the Martians—dead!—slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being slain; slain, after all man’s devices had failed, by the humblest things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth.

A moment later, I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and stood on top, looking down into the redoubt. It was a vast space, with gigantic machines, huge piles of material, and strange shelters scattered throughout. The Martians lay scattered there too. Some were in their overturned war-machines, and some were in the handling-machines, which were now motionless. A dozen lay stiff and silent in a row. They were dead! Bacteria that cause decay and disease had killed them because their bodies had no defenses against the bacteria. They had been killed just as the red weed was being killed. After all human inventions had failed, they had been killed by the humblest things God, in his wisdom, had put on earth.

For so it had come about, as indeed I and many men might have foreseen had not terror and disaster blinded our minds. These germs of disease have taken toll of humanity since the beginning of things—taken toll of our prehuman ancestors since life began here. But by virtue of this natural selection of our kind we have developed resisting power; to no germs do we succumb without a struggle, and to many—those that cause putrefaction in dead matter, for instance—our living frames are altogether immune. But there are no bacteria in Mars, and directly these invaders arrived, directly they drank and fed, our microscopic allies began to work their overthrow. Already when I watched them they were irrevocably doomed, dying and rotting even as they went to and fro. It was inevitable. By the toll of a billion deaths man has bought his birthright of the earth, and it is his against all comers; it would still be his were the Martians ten times as mighty as they are. For neither do men live nor die in vain.

That was how it had happened. Indeed, I and many others might have foreseen it if terror and disaster had not blinded our minds. These disease germs have claimed human lives since the beginning of things. They have claimed the lives of our prehuman ancestors since life began here. But through the natural selection of our kind, we have developed resistance. We do not give in to any germs without a struggle. And our living bodies are completely immune to many, such as those that cause dead matter to rot. But there are no bacteria on Mars. As soon as the invaders arrived, and as soon as they drank and ate, our microscopic allies began to destroy them. When I watched the Martians, they were already doomed beyond saving. They were dying and rotting even as they moved about. It was inevitable. At the cost of a billion deaths, humanity has bought its birthright to the earth. The earth belongs to humanity against all challengers. It would still belong to humanity even if the Martians were ten times as powerful as they are. For people neither live nor die in vain.

Here and there they were scattered, nearly fifty altogether, in that great gulf they had made, overtaken by a death that must have seemed to them as incomprehensible as any death could be. To me also at that time this death was incomprehensible. All I knew was that these things that had been alive and so terrible to men were dead. For a moment I believed that the destruction of Sennacherib had been repeated, that God had repented, that the Angel of Death had slain them in the night.

They lay scattered here and there in the great pit they had made, nearly fifty of them in all. Death had overtaken them, and it must have seemed as incomprehensible to them as any death could be. At the time, their deaths were incomprehensible to me too. All I knew was that these things, which had been alive and so terrifying to people, were dead. For a moment, I believed that the destruction of Sennacherib had happened again. I believed that God had changed his mind and that the Angel of Death had killed them in the night.

I stood staring into the pit, and my heart lightened gloriously, even as the rising sun struck the world to fire about me with his rays. The pit was still in darkness; the mighty engines, so great and wonderful in their power and complexity, so unearthly in their tortuous forms, rose weird and vague and strange out of the shadows towards the light. A multitude of dogs, I could hear, fought over the bodies that lay darkly in the depth of the pit, far below me. Across the pit on its farther lip, flat and vast and strange, lay the great flying-machine with which they had been experimenting upon our denser atmosphere when decay and death arrested them. Death had come not a day too soon. At the sound of a cawing overhead I looked up at the huge fighting-machine that would fight no more for ever, at the tattered red shreds of flesh that dripped down upon the overturned seats on the summit of Primrose Hill.

I stood staring into the pit, and my heart filled with joy. At the same moment, the rising sun set the world ablaze with its rays. The pit was still dark. The mighty machines rose strangely out of the shadows toward the light, their shapes vague and weird. Their power and complexity were immense and wonderful, and their twisted forms looked unearthly. Far below me, I could hear a multitude of dogs fighting over the bodies lying in the darkness. Across the pit, on its far edge, lay the great flying-machine, flat, vast, and strange. The Martians had been using it to experiment in our denser atmosphere when decay and death stopped them. Death had not come a day too soon. I heard a cawing overhead and looked up at the huge fighting-machine that would never fight again. Shreds of torn red flesh dripped from it onto the overturned seats at the summit of Primrose Hill.

I turned and looked down the slope of the hill to where, enhaloed now in birds, stood those other two Martians that I had seen overnight, just as death had overtaken them. The one had died, even as it had been crying to its companions; perhaps it was the last to die, and its voice had gone on perpetually until the force of its machinery was exhausted. They glittered now, harmless tripod towers of shining metal, in the brightness of the rising sun.

I turned and looked down the hillside. There stood the other two Martians I had seen the night before, surrounded now by a halo of birds. Death had caught them just as they stood. One had died while calling out to its companions. Perhaps it was the last to die, and its voice had continued until its machinery ran out of power. Now they glittered in the light of the rising sun, harmless tripod towers of shining metal.

All about the pit, and saved as by a miracle from everlasting destruction, stretched the great Mother of Cities. Those who have only seen London veiled in her sombre robes of smoke can scarcely imagine the naked clearness and beauty of the silent wilderness of houses.

All around the pit stretched the great Mother of Cities, saved as if by a miracle from destruction forever. Those who have only seen London cloaked in dark smoke can hardly imagine the bare clarity and beauty of that silent wilderness of houses.

Eastward, over the blackened ruins of the Albert Terrace and the splintered spire of the church, the sun blazed dazzling in a clear sky, and here and there some facet in the great wilderness of roofs caught the light and glared with a white intensity.

To the east, the sun blazed in a clear sky above the blackened ruins of Albert Terrace and the church's splintered spire. Here and there, surfaces among the vast expanse of roofs caught the light and glared a dazzling white.

Northward were Kilburn and Hampsted, blue and crowded with houses; westward the great city was dimmed; and southward, beyond the Martians, the green waves of Regent’s Park, the Langham Hotel, the dome of the Albert Hall, the Imperial Institute, and the giant mansions of the Brompton Road came out clear and little in the sunrise, the jagged ruins of Westminster rising hazily beyond. Far away and blue were the Surrey hills, and the towers of the Crystal Palace glittered like two silver rods. The dome of St. Paul’s was dark against the sunrise, and injured, I saw for the first time, by a huge gaping cavity on its western side.

To the north were Kilburn and Hampsted, blue and crowded with houses. To the west, the great city was dim. To the south, beyond the Martians, the rolling green of Regent’s Park stood clear and small in the sunrise. So did the Langham Hotel, the dome of the Albert Hall, the Imperial Institute, and the giant mansions of the Brompton Road. Beyond them, the jagged ruins of Westminster rose through the haze. Far away, the Surrey hills were blue, and the towers of the Crystal Palace glittered like two silver rods. The dome of St. Paul’s stood dark against the sunrise. For the first time, I saw that it was damaged, with a huge, gaping hole in its western side.

And as I looked at this wide expanse of houses and factories and churches, silent and abandoned; as I thought of the multitudinous hopes and efforts, the innumerable hosts of lives that had gone to build this human reef, and of the swift and ruthless destruction that had hung over it all; when I realised that the shadow had been rolled back, and that men might still live in the streets, and this dear vast dead city of mine be once more alive and powerful, I felt a wave of emotion that was near akin to tears.

I looked out over the vast stretch of houses, factories, and churches, silent and abandoned. I thought of the countless hopes and efforts, and the countless lives that had built this human reef. I thought, too, of the swift and ruthless destruction that had threatened it all. Then I realized that the shadow had lifted. People might still live in the streets, and my dear, vast, dead city might be alive and powerful once more. A wave of emotion came over me, and I nearly cried.

The torment was over. Even that day the healing would begin. The survivors of the people scattered over the country—leaderless, lawless, foodless, like sheep without a shepherd—the thousands who had fled by sea, would begin to return; the pulse of life, growing stronger and stronger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour across the vacant squares. Whatever destruction was done, the hand of the destroyer was stayed. All the gaunt wrecks, the blackened skeletons of houses that stared so dismally at the sunlit grass of the hill, would presently be echoing with the hammers of the restorers and ringing with the tapping of their trowels. At the thought I extended my hands towards the sky and began thanking God. In a year, thought I—in a year. . . .

The torment was over. Healing would begin that very day. The survivors scattered across the country would begin to return, as would the thousands who had fled by sea. They had no leaders, no laws, and no food, like sheep without a shepherd. Life would pulse again, growing stronger and stronger in the empty streets and spreading across the vacant squares. Whatever destruction had been done, the destroyer had been stopped. All the bare ruins and blackened skeletons of houses looked out bleakly at the sunlit grass of the hill. Soon they would echo with the hammers and trowels of the people rebuilding them. At the thought, I stretched my hands toward the sky and began thanking God. In a year, I thought, in a year. . . .

With overwhelming force came the thought of myself, of my wife, and the old life of hope and tender helpfulness that had ceased for ever.

I was overwhelmed by thoughts of myself, my wife, and our old life of hope and tender care for each other. That life was gone forever.