We look for the body. The scorching heat on our faces drives us back: we see nothing⁠—above, below, all through the room, we see nothing but a sheet of living fire.

“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring vacantly at the flames.

“He’s dust and ashes,” said the clerk. “And the books are dust and ashes⁠—and oh, sirs! the church will be dust and ashes soon.”

Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent again, nothing stirred in the stillness but the bubble and the crackle of the flames.

Hark!

A harsh rattling sound in the distance⁠—then the hollow beat of horses’ hoofs at full gallop⁠—then the low roar, the all-predominant tumult of hundreds of human voices clamouring and shouting together. The engine at last.