“Carried without a division,” said Lord John.  “By George, that poor devil of a chauffeur of yours down in the yard has made his last journey.  No use makin’ a sally and bringin’ him in?”

“It would be absolute madness,” cried Summerlee.

“Well, I suppose it would,” said Lord John.  “It couldn’t help him and would scatter our gas all over the house, even if we ever got back alive.  My word, look at the little birds under the trees!”

We drew four chairs up to the long, low window, the lady still resting with closed eyes upon the settee.  I remember that the monstrous and grotesque idea crossed my mind—­the illusion may have been heightened by the heavy stuffiness of the air which we were breathing—­that we were in four front seats of the stalls at the last act of the drama of the world.

In the immediate foreground, beneath our very eyes, was the small yard with the half-cleaned motor-car standing in it.  Austin, the chauffeur, had received his final notice at last, for he was sprawling beside the wheel, with a great black bruise upon his forehead where it had struck the step or mud-guard in falling.  He still held in his hand the nozzle of the hose with which he had been washing down his machine.  A couple of small plane trees stood in the corner of the yard, and underneath them lay several pathetic little balls of fluffy feathers, with tiny feet uplifted.  The sweep of death’s scythe had included everything, great and small, within its swath.

Over the wall of the yard we looked down upon the winding road, which led to the station.  A group of the reapers whom we had seen running from the fields were lying all pell-mell, their bodies crossing each other, at the bottom of it.  Farther up, the nurse-girl lay with her head and shoulders propped against the slope of the grassy bank.  She had taken the baby from the perambulator, and it was a motionless bundle of wraps in her arms.  Close behind her a tiny patch upon the roadside showed where the little boy was stretched.  Still nearer to us was the dead cab-horse, kneeling between the shafts.  The old driver was hanging over the splash-board like some grotesque scarecrow, his arms dangling absurdly in front of him.  Through the window we could dimly discern that a young man was seated inside.  The door was swinging open and his hand was grasping the handle, as if he had attempted to leap forth at the last instant.  In the middle distance lay the golf links, dotted as they had been in the morning with the dark figures of the golfers, lying motionless upon the grass of the course or among the heather which skirted it.  On one particular green there were eight bodies stretched where a foursome with its caddies had held to their game to the last.  No bird flew in the blue vault of heaven, no man or beast moved upon the vast countryside which lay before us.  The evening sun shone its peaceful radiance across it, but there brooded over it all the stillness and