otic, and too close
to the houses of the town. All one side of a cottage was painted pink
with the giant brush of flame; the next side, by contrast, was painted
as black as tar. Along the front of this ran a blackening rim or rampart
edged with a restless red ribbon that danced and doubled and devoured
like a scarlet snake; and beyond it was nothing but a deathly fulness of
light.

I put on some clothes and went down the road; all the dull or startling
noises in that din of burning growing louder and louder as I walked. The
heaviest sound was that of an incessant cracking and crunching, as if
some giant with teeth of stone was breaking up the bones of the world. I
had not yet come within sight of the real heart and habitat of the fire;
but the strong red light, like an unnatural midnight sunset, powdered
the grayest grass with gold and flushed the few tall trees up to the
last fingers of their foliage. Behind them the night was black and
cavernous; and one could only trace faintly the ashen horizon beyond the
dark and magic Wilton Woods. As I went, a workman on a bicycle shot a
rood past me; then staggered from his machine and shouted to me to tell
him where the fire was. I answered that I was going to see, but thought
it was the cottages by the wood-yard. He said, "My God!" and vanished.

A little farther on I found grass and pavement soaking and flooded, and
the red and yellow flames repainted in pools and puddles. Beyond were
dim huddles of people and a small distant voice shouting out orders. The
fire-engines were at work. I went on among the red reflections, which
seemed like subterranean fires; I had a singular sensation of being in a
very important dream. Oddly enough, this was increased when I found that
most of my friends and neighbours were entangled in the crowd. Only in
dreams do we see familiar faces so vividly against a black background of
midnight. I was glad to find (for the workman cyclist's sake) that
the fire was not in the houses by the wood-yard, but in the wood-yard
itself. There was no fear for human life, and the thing was seemingly
accidental; though there were the usual ugly whispers about rivalry and
revenge. But for all that I could not shake off my dream-drugged soul a
swollen, tragic, portentous sort of sensation, that it all had something
to do with the crowning of the English King, and the glory or the end
of England. It was not till I saw the puddles and the ashes in broad
daylight next