with his hand upon the open door in the very act of springing out.  Lower down were six reapers all in a litter, their limbs crossing, their dead, unwinking eyes gazing upwards at the glare of heaven.  These things I see as in a photograph.  But soon, by the merciful provision of nature, the over-excited nerve ceased to respond.  The very vastness of the horror took away from its personal appeal.  Individuals merged into groups, groups into crowds, crowds into a universal phenomenon which one soon accepted as the inevitable detail of every scene.  Only here and there, where some particularly brutal or grotesque incident caught the attention, did the mind come back with a sudden shock to the personal and human meaning of it all.

Above all, there was the fate of the children.  That, I remember, filled us with the strongest sense of intolerable injustice.  We could have wept—­Mrs. Challenger did weep—­when we passed a great council school and saw the long trail of tiny figures scattered down the road which led from it.  They had been dismissed by their terrified teachers and were speeding for their homes when the poison caught them in its net.  Great numbers of people were at the open windows of the houses.  In Tunbridge Wells there was hardly one which had not its staring, smiling face.  At the last instant the need of air, that very craving for oxygen which we alone had been able to satisfy, had sent them flying to the window.  The sidewalks too were littered with men and women, hatless and bonnetless, who had rushed out of the houses.  Many of them had fallen in the roadway.  It was a lucky thing that in Lord John we had found an expert driver, for it was no easy matter to pick one’s way.  Passing through the villages or towns we could only go at a walking pace, and once, I remember, opposite the school at Tonbridge, we had to halt some time while we carried aside the bodies which blocked our path.

A few small, definite pictures stand out in my memory from amid that long panorama of death upon the Sussex and Kentish high roads.  One was that of a great, glittering motor-car standing outside the inn at the village of Southborough.  It bore, as I should guess, some pleasure party upon their return from Brighton or from Eastbourne.  There were three gaily dressed women, all young and beautiful, one of them with a Peking spaniel upon her lap.  With them were a rakish-looking elderly man and a young aristocrat, his eyeglass still in his eye, his cigarette burned down to the stub between the fingers of his begloved hand.  Death must have come on them in an instant and fixed them as they sat.  Save that the elderly man had at the last moment torn out his collar in an effort to breathe, they might all have been asleep.  On one side of the car a waiter with some broken glasses beside a tray was huddled near the step.  On the other, two very ragged tramps, a man and a woman, lay where they had fallen, the man with his long, thin arm still outstretched, even as he had asked for alms in his lifetime.  One instant of time had put aristocrat, waiter, tramp, and dog upon one common footing of inert and dissolving protoplasm.