Only one other picture shall I give of the scenes which we carried back in our memories from the dead city.  It is a glimpse which we had of the interior of the old church of St. Mary’s, which is at the very point where our car was awaiting us.  Picking our way among the prostrate figures upon the steps, we pushed open the swing door and entered.  It was a wonderful sight.  The church was crammed from end to end with kneeling figures in every posture of supplication and abasement.  At the last dreadful moment, brought suddenly face to face with the realities of life, those terrific realities which hang over us even while we follow the shadows, the terrified people had rushed into those old city churches which for generations had hardly ever held a congregation.  There they huddled as close as they could kneel, many of them in their agitation still wearing their hats, while above them in the pulpit a young man in lay dress had apparently been addressing them when he and they had been overwhelmed by the same fate.  He lay now, like Punch in his booth, with his head and two limp arms hanging over the ledge of the pulpit.  It was a nightmare, the grey, dusty church, the rows of agonized figures, the dimness and silence of it all.  We moved about with hushed whispers, walking upon our tip-toes.

And then suddenly I had an idea.  At one corner of the church, near the door, stood the ancient font, and behind it a deep recess in which there hung the ropes for the bell-ringers.  Why should we not send a message out over London which would attract to us anyone who might still be alive?  I ran across, and pulling at the list-covered rope, I was surprised to find how difficult it was to swing the bell.  Lord John had followed me.

“By George, young fellah!” said he, pulling off his coat.  “You’ve hit on a dooced good notion.  Give me a grip and we’ll soon have a move on it.”

But, even then, so heavy was the bell that it was not until Challenger and Summerlee had added their weight to ours that we heard the roaring and clanging above our heads which told us that the great clapper was ringing out its music.  Far over dead London resounded our message of comradeship and hope to any fellow-man surviving.  It cheered our own hearts, that strong, metallic call, and we turned the more earnestly to our work, dragged two feet off the earth with each upward jerk of the rope, but all straining together on the downward heave, Challenger the lowest of all, bending all his great strength to the task and flopping up and down like a monstrous bull-frog, croaking with every pull.  It was at that moment that an artist might have taken a picture of the four adventurers, the comrades of many strange perils in the past, whom fate had now chosen for so supreme an experience.  For half an hour we worked, the sweat dropping from our faces, our arms and backs aching with the exertion.  Then we went out into the portico of the church and looked eagerly up and down the silent, crowded streets.  Not a sound, not a motion, in answer to our summons.