'He shouted again, and I folded my arms and stood still. Presently he spoke to his men and came forward. He carried a drawn sword.
'I signed to him to keep away, but he continued to advance. I told him again very patiently and clearly: 'You must not come here. These are old temples and I am here with my dead.'
'Presently he was so close I could see his face clearly. It was a narrow face, with dull gray eyes, and a black moustache. He had a scar on his upper lip, and he was dirty and unshaven. He kept shouting unintelligible things, questions, perhaps, at me.
'I know now that he was afraid of me, but at the time that did not occur to me. As I tried to explain to him, he interrupted me in imperious tones, bidding me, I suppose, stand aside.
'He made to go past me, and I caught hold of him.
'I saw his face change at my grip.
''You fool,' I cried. 'Don't you know? She is dead!'
'He started back. He looked at me with cruel eyes. I saw a sort of exultant resolve leap into them--delight. Then, suddenly, with a scowl, he swept his sword back--SO--and thrust.'
He stopped abruptly.
I became aware of a change in the rhythm of the train. The brakes lifted their voices and the carriage jarred and jerked. This present world insisted upon itself, became clamourous. I saw through the steamy window huge electric fights glaring down from tall masts upon a fog, saw rows of stationary empty carriages passing by, and then a signal-box hoisting its constellation of green and red into the murky London twilight, marched after them. I looked again at his drawn features.
'He ran me through the heart. It was with a sort of astonishment--no fear, no pain--but just amazement, that I felt it pierce me, felt the sword drive home into my body. It didn't hurt, you know. It didn't hurt at all.'
The yellow platform lights came into the field of view, passing first rapidly, then slowly, and at last stopping with a jerk. Dim shapes of men passed to and fro without.
'Euston!' cried a voice.
'Do you mean--?'
'There was no pain, no sting or smart. Amazement and then darkness sweeping over everything. The hot, brutal face before me, the face of the man who had killed me, seemed to recede. It swept out of existence--'
'Euston!' clamoured the voices outside; 'Euston!'
The carriage door opened admitting a flood of sound, and a porter stood regarding us.
The sounds of doors slamming, and the hoof-clatter of cab-horses, and behind these things the featureless remote roar of the London cobble-stones, came to my ears. A truckload of lighted lamps blazed along the platform.
'A darkness, a flood of darkness that opened and spread and blotted out all things.'
'Any luggage, sir?' said the porter.
'And that was the end?' I asked.
He seemed to hesitate. Then, almost inaudibly, he answered, 'NO.'
'You mean?'
'I couldn't get to her. She was there on the other side of the temple-- And then--'
'Yes,' I insisted. 'Yes?'
'Nightmares,' he cried; 'nightmares indeed! My God! Great birds that fought and tore.'
The Cone
The night was hot and overcast, the sky red, rimmed with the lingering sunset of midsummer. They sat at the open window, trying to fancy the air was fresher there. The trees and shrubs of the garden stood stiff and dark; beyond in the roadway a gas- lamp burnt, bright orange against the hazy blue of the evening. Farther were the three lights of the railway signal against the lowering sky. The man and woman spoke to one another in low tones.
'He does not suspect?' said the man, a little nervously.
'Not he,' she said peevishly, as though that too irritated her. 'He thinks of nothing but the works and the prices of fuel. He has no imagination, no poetry.'
'None of these men of iron have,' he said sententiously. 'They have no hearts.'
'HE has not,' she said. She turned her discontented face towards the window. The distant sound of a roaring and rushing drew nearer and grew in volume; the house quivered; one heard the metallic rattle of the tender. As the train passed, there was a glare of light above the cutting and a driving tumult of smoke; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight black oblongs--eight trucks--passed across the dim grey of the embankment, and were suddenly extinguished one by one in the throat of the tunnel, which, with the last, seemed to swallow down train, smoke, and sound in one abrupt gulp.
'This country was all fresh and beautiful once,' he said; 'and now--it is Gehenna. Down that way--nothing but pot-banks and chimneys belching fire and dust into the face of heaven . . . . . But what does it matter? An end comes, an end to all this cruelty . . . . . TO-MORROW.' He spoke the last word in a whisper.
'TO-MORROW,' she said, speaking in a whisper too, and still staring out of the window.
'Dear!' he said, putting his hand on hers.
She turned with a start, and their eyes searched one another's. Hers softened to his gaze.
'My dear one!' she said, and then: 'It seems so strange --that you should have come into my life like this--to open--' She paused.
'To open?' he said.
