“Let us go,” said Oro.  “I do not understand these rites, but at last in your great and wonderful city I have seen something that is pure and noble.”

We went out.  In the streets there was great excitement.  People ran to and fro pointing upwards.  Searchlights, like huge fingers of flame, stole across the sky; guns boomed.  At last, in the glare of a searchlight, we saw a long and sinister object floating high above us and gleaming as though it were made of silver.  Flashes came from it followed by terrible booming reports that grew nearer and nearer.  A house collapsed with a crash just behind us.

“Ah!” said Oro, with a smile.  “I know this—­it is war, war as it was when the world was different and yet the same.”

As he spoke, a motor-bus rumbled past.  Another flash and explosion.  A man, walking with his arms round the waist of a girl just ahead of us; seemed to be tossed up and to melt.  The girl fell in a heap on the pavement; somehow her head and her feet had come quite close together and yet she appeared to be sitting down.  The motor-bus burst into fragments and its passengers hurtled through the air, mere hideous lumps that had been men and women.  The head of one of them came dancing down the pavement towards us, a cigar still stuck in the corner of its mouth.

“Yes, this is war,” said Oro.  “It makes me young again to see it.  But does this city of yours understand?”

We watched a while.  A crowd gathered.  Policemen ran up, ambulances came.  The place was cleared, and all that was left they carried away.  A few minutes later another man passed by with his arm round the waist of another girl.  Another motor-bus rumbled up, and, avoiding the hole in the roadway, travelled on, its conductor keeping a keen look-out for fares.

The street was cleared by the police; the airship continued its course, spawning bombs in the distance, and vanished.  The incident was closed.

“Let us go home,” said Oro.  “I have seen enough of your great and wonderful city.  I would rest in the quiet of Nyo and think.”

The next thing that I remember was the voice of Bastin, saying: 

“If you don’t mind, Arbuthnot, I wish that you would get up.  The Glittering Lady (he still called her that) is coming here to have a talk with me which I should prefer to be private.  Excuse me for disturbing you, but you have overslept yourself; indeed, I think it must be nine o’clock, so far as I can judge by the sun, for my watch is very erratic now, ever since Bickley tried to clean it.”

“I am sorry, my dear fellow,” I said sleepily, “but do you know I thought I was in London—­in fact, I could swear that I have been there.”

“Then,” interrupted Bickley, who had followed Bastin into the hut, giving me that doubtful glance with which I was now familiar, “I wish to goodness that you had brought back an evening paper with you.”

A night or two later I was again suddenly awakened to feel that Oro was approaching.  He appeared like a ghost in the bright moonlight, greeted me, and said: