He bent down and began to unstrap something from his bicycle.  It was something that had puzzled his companion all the way in spite of what held him to more interesting riddles; it appeared to be several lengths of pole strapped together and wrapped up in paper.  Fisher took it under his arm and began to pick his way across the turf.  The ground was growing more tumbled and irregular and he was walking toward a mass of thickets and small woods; night grew darker every moment.  “We must not talk any more,” said Fisher.  “I shall whisper to you when you are to halt.  Don’t try to follow me then, for it will only spoil the show; one man can barely crawl safely to the spot, and two would certainly be caught.”

“I would follow you anywhere,” replied March, “but I would halt, too, if that is better.”

“I know you would,” said his friend in a low voice.  “Perhaps you’re the only man I ever quite trusted in this world.”

A few paces farther on they came to the end of a great ridge or mound looking monstrous against the dim sky; and Fisher stopped with a gesture.  He caught his companion’s hand and wrung it with a violent tenderness, and then darted forward into the darkness.  March could faintly see his figure crawling along under the shadow of the ridge, then he lost sight of it, and then he saw it again standing on another mound two hundred yards away.  Beside him stood a singular erection made apparently of two rods.  He bent over it and there was the flare of a light; all March’s schoolboy memories woke in him, and he knew what it was.  It was the stand of a rocket.  The confused, incongruous memories still possessed him up to the very moment of a fierce but familiar sound; and an instant after the rocket left its perch and went up into endless space like a starry arrow aimed at the stars.  March thought suddenly of the signs of the last days and knew he was looking at the apocalyptic meteor of something like a Day of judgment.

Far up in the infinite heavens the rocket drooped and sprang into scarlet stars.  For a moment the whole landscape out to the sea and back to the crescent of the wooded hills was like a lake of ruby light, of a red strangely rich and glorious, as if the world were steeped in wine rather than blood, or the earth were an earthly paradise, over which paused forever the sanguine moment of morning.

“God save England!” cried Fisher, with a tongue like the peal of a trumpet.  “And now it is for God to save.”

As darkness sank again over land and sea, there came another sound; far away in the passes of the hills behind them the guns spoke like the baying of great hounds.  Something that was not a rocket, that came not hissing but screaming, went over Harold March’s head and expanded beyond the mound into light and deafening din, staggering the brain with unbearable brutalities of noise.  Another came, and then another, and the world was full of uproar and volcanic vapor and chaotic light.  The artillery of the West country and the Irish had located the great enemy battery, and were pounding it to pieces.