dful."

"As I have already explained," said Challenger, "a universal death must
in its nature be far less terrible than a isolated one."

"Same in a battle," remarked Lord John. "If you saw a single man lying
on that floor with his chest knocked in and a hole in his face it would
turn you sick. But I've seen ten thousand on their backs in the Soudan,
and it gave me no such feelin', for when you are makin' history the life
of any man is too small a thing to worry over. When a thousand million
pass over together, same as happened to-day, you can't pick your own
partic'lar out of the crowd."

"I wish it were well over with us," said the lady wistfully. "Oh,
George, I am so frightened."

"You'll be the bravest of us all, little lady, when the time comes. I've
been a blusterous old husband to you, dear, but you'll just bear in mind
that G. E. C. is as he was made and couldn't help himself. After all,
you wouldn't have had anyone else?"

"No one in the whole wide world, dear," said she, and put her arms round
his bull neck. We three walked to the window and stood amazed at the
sight which met our eyes.

Darkness had fallen and the dead world was shrouded in gloom. But right
across the southern horizon was one long vivid scarlet streak, waxing and
waning in vivid pulses of life, leaping suddenly to a crimson zenith and
then dying down to a glowing line of fire.

"Lewes is ablaze!"

"No, it is Brighton which is burning," said Challenger, stepping across
to join us. "You can see the curved back of the downs against the glow.
That fire is miles on the farther side of it. The whole town must be
alight."

There were several red glares at different points, and the pile of
_debris_ upon the railway line was still smoldering darkly, but they all
seemed mere pin-points of light compared to that monstrous conflagration
throbbing beyond the hills. What copy it would have made for the
Gazette! Had ever a journalist such an opening and so little chance of
using it--the scoop of scoops, and no one to appreciate it? And then,
suddenly, the old instinct of recording came over me. If these men of
science could be so true to their life's work to the very end, why should
not I, in my humble way, be as constant? No human eye might ever rest
upon what I had done. But the long night had to be passed somehow, and
for me at least, sleep seemed to be out of the question. My notes would
help to pass the weary hours and to