once been the street was now a quarry of broken bricks, with here and
there vast circular craters as though a gigantic oak-tree had been torn
out of the earth by the roots. And now the weird silence was broken by
sounds as of some one playing a lonely tattoo with his fingers upon a
hollow wooden board, but the player was invisible, and as we looked at
each other the sound ceased as suddenly as it began. Our practised ear
told us that somewhere near us a machine-gun was concealed, but these
furtive sounds were so homeless, so impersonal, that they eluded us like
an echo.

It was this complete absence of visible human agency that impressed us
most disagreeably, as with a sense of being utterly forlorn amid a play
of the elements, like Lear upon the heath. There came into my mind, as
our eyes groped for some human sign in the brooding landscape, the
thought of the prophet upon the mount amid the wind and the earthquake
and the fire seeking the presence of his God and finding it not. And
here too all these assaults upon our senses were fugitive and ghostly,
and we felt ourselves encompassed about as by some great conspiracy. We
walked curiously up the little street until we reached the last house in
the village, and came out beyond the screen of its wall. At the same
instant something sang past my ear like the twang of a Jew's harp, my
foot caught in a coil of wire, and I fell headlong. My companion,
lagging behind and not yet clear of the friendly wall, stopped dead and
cried to me not to stand up. I crawled back among the rubbish to the
cover of the house. We took counsel together. To retreat were perilous,
but to advance might be fatal. We lowered our voices as, cowering behind
walls, and picking our way delicately among the _débris_, we crept back
to our car behind the entrance to the village. The driver started the
engine and we moved forlornly along the narrow causeway, skirting the
unfathomable mud that lay on either side, until we spied a ruined