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For a moment they stood panting and victorious, and then Elizabeth, dropping her spade, covered her face, and sank to the ground in a paroxysm of weeping. Denton looked about him, thrust the point of his sword into the ground so that it was at hand, and stooped to comfort her.

* * * * *

At last their more tumultuous emotions subsided, and they could talk again. She leant upon the wall, and he sat upon it so that he could keep an eye open for any returning dogs. Two, at any rate, were up on the hillside and keeping up a vexatious barking.

She was tear-stained, but not very wretched now, because for half an hour he had been repeating that she was brave and had saved his life. But a new fear was growing in her mind.

“They are the dogs of the Food Company,” she said. “There will be trouble.”

“I am afraid so. Very likely they will prosecute us for trespass.”

A pause.

“In the old times,” he said, “this sort of thing happened day after day.”

“Last night!” she said. “I could not live through another such night.”

He looked at her. Her face was pale for want of sleep, and drawn and haggard. He came to a sudden resolution. “We must go back,” he said.

She looked at the dead dogs, and shivered. “We cannot stay here,” she said.

“We must go back,” he repeated, glancing over his shoulder to see if the enemy kept their distance. “We have been happy for a time…. But the world is too civilised. Ours is the age of cities. More of this will kill us.”

“But what are we to do? How can we live there?”

Denton hesitated. His heel kicked against the wall on which he sat. “It’s a thing I haven’t mentioned before,” he said, and coughed; “but …”

“Yes?”

“You could raise money on your expectations,” he said.

“Could I?” she said eagerly.

“Of course you could. What a child you are!”

She stood up, and her face was bright. “Why did you not tell me before?” she asked. “And all this time we have been here!”

He looked at her for a moment, and smiled. Then the smile vanished. “I thought it ought to come from you,” he said. “I didn’t like to ask for your money. And besides–at first I thought this would be rather fine.”

There was a pause.

“It has been fine,” he said; and glanced once more over his shoulder. “Until all this began.”

“Yes,” she said, “those first days. The first three days.”

They looked for a space into one another’s faces, and then Denton slid down from the wall and took her hand.

“To each generation,” he said, “the life of its time. I see it all plainly now. In the city–that is the life to which we were born. To live in any other fashion … Coming here was a dream, and this–is the awakening.”

“It was a pleasant dream,” she said,–“in the beginning.”

For a long space neither spoke.

“If we would reach the city before the shepherds come here, we must start,” said Denton. “We must get our food out of the house and eat as we go.”

Denton glanced about him again, and, giving the dead dogs a wide berth, they walked across the garden space and into the house together. They found the wallet with their food, and descended the blood-stained stairs again. In the hall Elizabeth stopped. “One minute,” she said. “There is something here.”

She led the way into the room in which that one little blue flower was blooming. She stooped to it, she touched it with her hand.

“I want it,” she said; and then, “I cannot take it….”

Impulsively she stooped and kissed its petals.

Then silently, side by side, they went across the empty garden-space into the old high road, and set their faces resolutely towards the distant city–towards the complex mechanical city of those latter days, the city that had swallowed up mankind.

III–THE WAYS OF THE CITY